


Itchy, Twitchy, Ooky, Spooky

by Noxbait



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Case Fic, Gen, Halloween, Hurt Dean Winchester, Hurt Sam Winchester, Hurt/Comfort, Season/Series 10, Sick Dean Winchester, Spooky, Tired Sam Winchester
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-01
Updated: 2018-11-01
Packaged: 2019-08-13 23:17:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 24,968
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16481642
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Noxbait/pseuds/Noxbait
Summary: Season 10. A haunted house on Halloween, what could be more appropriate for the Winchester brothers? It was supposed to be a quick, easy case followed by a candy-binge and a horror movie marathon. Nothing goes to plan, though, and the boys find themselves with a case spiraling out of control. Even worse, something is very, very wrong with Dean. COMPLETE.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is set in Season 10, somewhere mid-season-ish when Dean's somewhat got a handle on the Mark of Cain.  
> Also posted on fanfiction.net

"Dude! Flickering lights, spooky creaking floor, wind rattling the windows," Dean listed off, "it's like a haunted house!"

"This is a haunted house." Sam stared at his brother as lightning flashed, illuminating his grinning face.

"Well, yeah. But you have to admit, it's pretty spooky."

"Yeah. Because it's a haunted house." Sam hefted the shotgun and asked, "Can we just do this job and get out of here?"

"You have somewhere to be?" Dean raised an eyebrow.

"No."

Dean's grin widened. "Aw, Sammy, were you planning to go trick-or-treating?"

"It's two in the morning." Rolling his eyes, Sam ignored him and walked into the next room. "A little early for trick-or-treating, don't you think?"

"I'll take you trick-or-treating tonight," Dean offered, trailing behind him.

"How about we just salt and burn the ghost and get out of here?"

"You are so crabby." Dean elbowed past him, glancing down at the EMF that was still silent. "Maybe if you actually slept at night like a normal human, you wouldn't be such a Debbie downer about everything."

Sam opened his mouth, but closed it before he said anything. He was too tired to deal with a full-blown argument. Another one. Their arguments had been frequent and petty lately and he hated it. He also hated that they were bothering with this job when there were more important things they needed to be doing.

This was a routine salt and burn. A haunted house that was abandoned and mostly ignored. The ghost had never hurt anyone as far as they knew. Dean had found a brief mention of the haunted house on a blog dedicated to "real life hauntings." The only reason they were even here was because Dean had lit up like a kid at Christmas at the prospect of visiting an actual haunted house on Halloween. He'd been so thrilled with the idea that Sam had finally caved and here they were.

Sam followed Dean up the stairs as the few remaining pictures rattled against the walls with the rolling thunder. Glass crunched under his feet and the floorboards were suitably creaky. Lit only by their flashlights and the bright bursts of lightning, the hall at the top of the stairs was eerie. It wasn't Sam's first haunted house, not by a long shot, but it was sending the occasional shiver down his spine anyway.

He wanted to get this over with, get a hundred miles away, and go back to trying to figure out how to get the Mark off his brother's arm.

Maybe he was crabby.

He knew he needed sleep. It was a little difficult to sleep, though, when all he could do was picture Dean looking at him with ink-black eyes filled with hatred. When all he could think about was that it could happen again if he didn't fix this. The Mark had to go or he was going to lose his brother all over again.

"Sam?"

Dean's voice was too loud and too close and he flinched.

"Hey, easy." His brother took a half-step back. "You alright?"

"Yeah. Fine." Sam blinked, eyes burning with fatigue.

"Damn it, Sam." Dean shook his head, his voice softer now. He took a slow breath, calming himself, then asked, "You gonna be able to do this?"

"I'm fine," Sam snapped.

This time he was the one elbowing past his brother. He ignored Dean's heavy sigh and pushed one of the bedroom doors open with his boot, shotgun at the ready. Part of him regretted dragging the mood down. Dean had been so upbeat and so like his old self all day. For whatever reason, though, it just made Sam worry.

Everything made him worry these days.

Lightning flashed beyond the shattered glass of the single window, revealing the emptiness of the room. Dean was breathing down the back of his neck; not so subtly trying to push him forward. Resigning himself, Sam stepped into the room and looked to the right while Dean went left. They worked their way around the room, checking the walls carefully.

"Oh, Miss Everett," Dean sing-songed, tapping the wall as he walked. "Come out, come out wherever you are."

Sam bit his tongue to avoid reminding his brother that antagonizing a ghost - however harmless she was purported to be - was usually a poor life decision. Of course, they were no strangers to poor life decisions. Regardless, he would be happier (or at least a little less crabby) if Dean would shut the hell up.

An unexpected boom of thunder made Sam jump. Shaking his head, he asked, "Why are we even here? We haven't had the chance to do any investigating in town yet, or check out the newspapers or town records. You know, legitimate sources."

Dean huffed, yanking a closet door open and searching inside.. "So the blog was a little vague. Doesn't change the fact that she's tied to this place. Gotta figure her bones are here or she's bound to something, right? What better place to start?"

"The library," Sam shot back, kicking a moth-eaten rug aside and stirring up a cloud of dust.

"Kill joy."

Sam sighed and reviewed what they had learned from the blog.

Fifteen year old Abigail Everett had gone missing nearly ninety years ago, during a bad storm just like the one happening outside right now. According to the blog, her uncle, Hugo, had been accused of her murder. He'd been caught trying to wash blood off of a butcher's knife with bloodied pieces of her dress still clutched in his hands. He'd sworn he was innocent, insisting that he'd just found the items, but the jury had believed otherwise.

According to the rumors, he'd been convicted and executed for her murder and taken his motive - as well as her final resting place - with him to the grave.

Her widowed father, Stirling, had passed away of heartbreak only a month later

The house was hidden deep in a copse of trees, far from town, and abandoned since her father's death. It wasn't until the 1970s when some teens out for a joyride had happened upon the house that anyone even realized the place was haunted. The teens had ventured inside on a dare and run right out again after seeing a ghost.

Since then, only a handful of people had gone near the house. No one had ever reported being harmed by the apparition that floated from room to room, but the sight of a butcher's knife sticking out of the ghost's chest was an excellent deterrent to further exploration.

"There's been no report of the ghost being vengeful or angry," Sam said, breaking the silence.

That had been his original argument against investigating this case in the first place. Why waste time going after a peaceful ghost in an abandoned house far from civilization when they had more important things to deal with? They could have called someone else to handle this while they worked on the pressing issue of the Mark.

He shook his head and added, "I think Abigail is as lonely in death as she was in life."

"That's actually kind of sad." Dean even sounded sad. For a heartbeat. Then he went back to the taunting. "Miss Everett, you've got company. Come out to visit."

Sam gritted his teeth, pausing to stare out the window at the storm. The yard was overgrown with weeds, the trees unkempt and bowed under the strain of the heavy rain. A tragic picture.

He listened to the floorboards groaning as Dean moved back toward the door, ready to search another room.

"You coming, or gonna stand there staring outside like a puppy that has to pee?"

With a sigh, Sam turned from the window. Dean was standing by the door, impatiently waving the EMF meter toward the hallway. His words had been teasing, but he looked concerned which was not good. Dean wasn't acting like a psycho at the moment and Sam regretted not trying harder to keep up the lighthearted atmosphere. He needed to shove his near-frantic worry deep down and find a way to get through this hunt.

So he nodded and followed his brother into the hall, not quite able to force a smile.

Twenty minutes later, they'd found nothing of interest. The house was almost entirely empty; anything of value had long ago been removed or stolen. Outside, the wind was wailing, tree branches bashing against the wall somewhere and creating an unsettling thump thump thump.

"EMF's been quiet." Dean frowned, sidestepping a growing pool of water under a significant leak in the ceiling. "So, attic or basement?"

"We haven't even searched the ground floor yet," Sam said, ready to take the easy route. In all honesty, he was hoping the ghost didn't show up and they could just write it off and leave.

"Scaredy cat." Dean grinned, already taking a step toward the attic stairs. "No one buries a body in the kitchen or the parlor -"

"Parlor?" Sam raised an eyebrow.

"Yes, Sam. Parlor. That's what they called them back in the day." He started up the stairs, saying over his shoulder, "They bury people in the attic or the basement. Maybe in the walls upstairs."

"Assuming she's buried here at all," Sam muttered.

"Even if she's not, when have we ever come across a ghost chillin' in the kitchen with a six pack? Or whatever people chilled with ninety years ago."

"Fine. Attic it is."

The staircase to the attic was narrow and the ceiling was low. The sounds of the storm were somewhat muffled and there was an unsettling stillness in the cramped space. With every step closer to the attic, the air grew more stale and heavy; almost like a thick blanket had settled over them. A sense of foreboding pressed down on Sam, making it difficult to breathe. Dean moved cautiously on the aching old stairs. They groaned with each step, but the sound was muted.

Sam's breathing sounded too loud and too fast even though he was trying to regulate it. It was ridiculous, but he wanted to leave. Like right now. Wanted to grab Dean's arm and pull him away from the attic door before he opened it. Wanted to get as far away from this place as he could because evil was so palpable he thought he could reach out and touch it.

An unholy cry split the silence, sending his heart into overdrive.

He stumbled backwards a step and hit the wall, his flashlight beam bouncing frantically as he searched for the threat. And then Dean's laughter broke through the rush of his pulse pounding in his ears. Jaw dropping, Sam stared at him, too stunned, too angry, to speak.

"You are way too tense, Sammy," Dean said, struggling to rein in his laughter. "You look like you just saw a ghost."

His brother started laughing again and if Sam hadn't just nearly had a heart attack, he might have found the gag a little more hilarious. Instead, frustration and fear boiled up inside him and he opened his mouth to lash out.

Icy coldness touched the back of his neck before he could say a word and the EMF reader went crazy. The chill seemed to flow through Sam as if it had flooded his veins.

Dean's expression changed from amusement to shock as the temperature around them plummeted. Sam didn't have the chance to do anything before frigid arms closed around his chest and he was yanked off his feet. Falling backwards, he heard Dean shout his name and the blast of a shotgun.

He had a moment to experience the disturbing sensation of flying and then an explosion of pain threw everything into darkness.

___________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

"All these years," Dean muttered, crouching next to his brother, "and she doesn't touch anyone. You must not be her type, Sam."

"Why?" Sam asked, trying to get his eyes open.

"That's what I'd like to know." Dean paused his damage assessment when he realized Sam was talking to him. "Hey, you with me?"

Blinking, Sam focused on him. Or at least mostly focused. He still looked out of it.

"Sam?" Dean prompted, tapping his cheek.

"What…" He tilted his head, then flinched.

"She pulled you down the stairs," Dean answered the question Sam hadn't been able to verbalize. "I tried to stop her, but you were in the way. Couldn't get a clear shot off until after you fell."

"Sorry." Sam pressed his hand to his eyes. "Where's she now?"

"Dunno. She hasn't been back. Anything broken?" Dean started checking Sam's head for any obvious injury.

"Nothing's broken. Stop."

"How many fingers am I holding up?" Dean asked, not holding up any fingers. He was too busy running his hands over Sam's chest looking for breaks.

"Stop it. I'm fine."

Sam started struggling to push himself upright, but Dean pinned him down with a firm hand on his chest. The gesture was met with a glare, but Dean ignored it.

"It's not like you fell off of a stepstool," he said, worry bleeding into his tone. "That was a pretty good hit you just took."

Sam relaxed and took a deep breath, then said, "Really. I'm ok."

Dean backed off and Sam pushed himself upright.

"How long was I out?"

"About a minute," Dean answered. Felt longer.

He gripped Sam's shoulder and glanced around the hallway. Rain was still pounding on the roof and lightning flashed beyond the windows but the EMF had been quiet since he'd blasted Abigail. Standing up, he offered his brother a hand.

Sam accepted the help to get to his feet, then said, "She hasn't been angry or violent before."  
Dean handed him his flashlight and shotgun. "Yeah, she did seem to take offense at us checking out the attic, didn't she?"

"Maybe no one has ever tried to go up to the attic?" Sam grimaced as he rubbed the back of his head. "You'd think a bunch of idiot kids on a dare would've tried to go upstairs and check out the creepy attic, though, wouldn't you?"

"I don't know." Dean peered up the staircase into the dark attic. "I was never an idiot kid."

Sam snorted.

"Shut up."

"I didn't say anything."

"You were thinking something."

"Hey," Sam caught his arm before Dean could start up the stairs, "maybe we should have a plan before we race right back up there?"

"I have a plan. Shoot the damn ghost."

"Well, yes, but-"

"She threw you down a staircase."

"Hadn't noticed." Sam smiled. "Look, I'm just saying, we need to be a little more prepared now that we know she's here and doesn't seem to want company in the attic."

"So get that shotgun ready and let's keep our eyes open." Dean hesitated a moment longer, doing a quick visual assessment before asking, "You sure you're alright?"

"Yes."

"Ok." Dean nodded.

This time, they both ascended the stairs with their backs pressed to opposite walls; Dean watching ahead, Sam preparing for another possible assault from the rear.

Dean was three steps from the landing when the temperature dropped. Lifting his shotgun, he stared into the darkness, knowing Sam was watching his back. Chills ran down his spine but he didn't see anything. He inched up another step, Sam doing the same.

"Hello, again," Dean muttered, then fired his shotgun.

The apparition at the top of the stairs vanished in a burst of rock salt. A second later, they were both in the attic, backs to the wall, surveying the room.

The room was more spacious than he'd expected. It apparently hadn't just been used for storage either. It had been a playroom.

To the left was a large, ornate dollhouse. A rocking horse stood nearby. Ahead of them, a wooden train appeared perfectly preserved on its little tracks. An assortment of other toys littered the floor and some shelves. The rest of the room was filled with the typical hodge podge of boxes and other paraphernalia that inevitably wound up in attics everywhere.

Regardless of the banal nature of the attic's contents, the room seemed charged with electricity; with anticipation. His skin was crawling from the perceptible malevolence surrounding them.

"Dean."

"You feel it?" Dean glanced at his brother.

Sam nodded; his face pale in the glow of the flashlight. Tense. Focused. They both returned to their survey of the room.

"Feels different than downstairs," Dean whispered, taking a cautious step forward. He shone his flashlight on the shelves. "Abigail's very angry."

While he searched the room, Sam covered him, in case Abigail showed up again.

"This is the only room in the house that hasn't been picked clean," Dean said, his voice low as he examined a kaleidoscope.

"She didn't want us coming up here. Maybe this is where she was murdered, or she's tied to something up here?"

Dean nodded, setting the kaleidoscope back on the shelf. He walked past a window, and lightning flashed, casting shadows around the room. One of the shadows seemed to stretch toward him and Sam called out a warning just before firing the shotgun.

Dean backed up a step, his own shotgun raised, and pressed up against the shelf, only to have the whole thing collapse.

They both jumped at the sound.

"Thanks," Dean said, then glanced at the fallen shelf. Leaning down, he shone his flashlight on the spilled contents. Picking through the toys, he said, "We could just burn the place down."

"We could," Sam agreed, taking a cautious step forward. "But what if her body's not here or she's tied to something on the grounds instead of the house? We might be burning down our only chance of ever figuring out how to end her."

Dean shrugged, sifting through a pile of toy soldiers. He grabbed a handful, then jerked back with a muttered curse.

"What?" Sam hurried forward. "What happened?"

"Just cut my finger on a bayonet." Dean shook out his hand, shining his light on it.

"A toy bayonet?" Sam smiled. "You poor thing. Need a bandaid?"

"These are tin toy soldiers," Dean said, glaring at him. He glanced at his bleeding finger and added defensively, "They're not plastic like ours were."

Sam nodded, his attention wandering now that he knew his brother was alright.

Dean followed his gaze around the room.

"There wasn't anything mentioned about her having a brother, was there?" Sam asked.

"Not that I saw." Dean frowned. "Maybe the toy soldiers and the train belonged to her dad or uncle?"

"Could be. Or maybe this family had more to hide than just Abigail's body."

While Sam stood guard, Dean searched a few other boxes. A disconcerting feeling of being watched followed him around the room. He was about to suggest they leave when the temperature fluctuated again.

This time it wasn't Abigail.

Dean called out a warning at the same time as Sam.

They fired their shotguns simultaneously.

It was only after the echoes of the blasts had faded away that Dean realized Sam was looking in a completely different direction, shotgun still at the ready. Sam glanced at Dean, then did a double-take.

"Ok, I just shot Abigail," Sam said, frowning, "but who did you shoot?"

"I don't know."

Dean shook his head, the hair on the back of his neck standing on end as he remembered the ghost he'd just shot. It had only been a split second, but pure evil had been staring at him from pale, dead eyes. The ghost's white shirt had been splattered with blood, his arms bloody as he'd reached out for Dean.

"What did you see?" Sam asked.

"A boy. Maybe ten or eleven."

"So now we've got two ghosts." Sam backed toward the stairs. "We need to get out of here."

"Wait." Dean kicked the rest of the toy soldiers out of the way and scrambled to pick up the scattered papers and books that had fallen from the shelf. A quick scan had him tossing most of the books back to the floor, but he saved all of the papers. "These look like personal letters and maybe a journal. They might be useful."

"Great. Let's go."

Sam led the way down, remaining on guard lest Abigail or the mysterious boy attempt to stop them. Dean watched the rear, the image of the ghostly little boy with the evil eyes seared into his memory. He'd been around plenty of evil beings in his lifetime and that ghost had definitely been evil. Neither the boy nor Abigail reappeared, though, and they made it out to the Impala without incident.

Dean got behind the wheel and tossed the papers and the journal onto the seat between them. He started the engine and said, "We've got about twenty hours to figure this out."

"Twenty hours?" Sam picked up a few of the letters, frowning. "I didn't know we were on a deadline."

"I want this done today. It's Halloween, man." He grinned, flipping on the windshield wipers. "I want to end a ghost on Halloween."

Sam just sighed.

________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

They returned to the motel and laid the journal and all of the letters out on the table. Sam sat down and started shuffling through the mess while Dean went to make a pot of coffee. The storm was easing outside although the rumble of thunder could still be heard in the distance.

They'd picked up on the case late and gotten to town late. Going out to the house at two in the morning hadn't been the preferred plan, and Sam was feeling the fatigue now. Even so, he looked up in surprise when Dean sat back down with one cup of coffee instead of two.

"Hey." He motioned to the cup. "Where's mine?"

Dean shook his head. "None for you, my brother."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"It means no coffee for you because you are going to get some sleep."

"I thought you wanted this ghost ganked today." Sam flipped a page in the journal. "I'm not going to bed yet."

"I don't even remember the last time you were near a bed, let alone actually slept."

"Dean-"

"Not a discussion, Sam."

"I don't need you to tell me what I need to do."

Dean snorted, yanking the journal away. "Is this going to become one of those you're not the boss of me arguments we had when you were ten?"

"You're not the boss of me."

"Here we go again. It is just like when you were ten." Dean pointed at the bed. "You can't watch my back if you can't keep your eyes open."

"I watched your back just fine in there," Sam argued, not willing to retreat. "Besides, you've been up as long as I have."

"I'll take a nap later. Just made a cup of coffee." Dean grinned, pointedly taking a sip. He set the cup down and said, "A couple hours. All I'm asking. This case isn't urgent. No one's been killed or even hurt. You're the only one in ninety years that Abigail didn't like."

"Funny." Sam shook his head, his resistance fading. He was tired, his head ached, and he was beginning to feel all the bruises from his fall.

Dean didn't say anything else, just took another sip of coffee. Obviously, he already knew he'd won.

Jerk.

Giving up, Sam pushed himself to his feet. He unbuttoned his flannel, tossed it over the back of the chair, then pulled off his boots. Deciding that he could at least take a couple minutes to close his burning eyes, he slid under the covers.

Sleep would be very unlikely considering how his mind never shut down anymore. Even in the brief moments he would try to sleep, the problem of the Mark would torment him until he was tossing and turning. It did feel good to lie down, though, and it was comforting to hear Dean flipping through the papers they'd found. It was a just a simple salt and burn. Maybe they'd get lucky and Dean would find something.

Ten minutes later, he was cursing himself for being so stupid to think there was such a thing as a simple salt and burn.

He'd managed to actually, unexpectedly, fall asleep only a few moments after closing his eyes. Like losing consciousness after Abigail had yanked him to the floor, he'd been out. Not drifting slowly into sleep, but blanked out almost instantly. He probably could have slept for twelve hours straight if not for the shocking interruption to his blessed unconsciousness.

Something shattered and he came awake instantly. Heart pounding in his ears, he sat up only to flounder backwards when the headrush sent his vision straight to black.

"Crap. Hey, calm down. It's fine. Sorry, sorry."

Dean's words were rushed and maybe a little panicked and did little to reassure Sam. Struggling to get his eyes to focus, he didn't try to sit up again, yet. Something had happened and now that he was awake, Sam needed answers.

"Dean?" he asked, his voice muddled and slow. Vision blurry, he rubbed his eyes and finally focused on his brother.

"Sorry, man. Just dropped the coffee pot." Dean was standing at the edge of the bed like he'd rushed over when Sam had sat up. "Sorry I woke you."

Sam would've dismissed the apology - might even have just given in to the pull of exhaustion again - but something was wrong. It wasn't just his gut telling him. Despite his foggy brain and bleary eyes, he could see something was off.

Struggling to sit up again, he leaned back against the headboard and asked, "What's wrong with you?"

"Nothing. Nothing, just dropped the pot. Sorry." Dean turned around.

"Wait." Sam got his feet on the ground and reached out fast enough to halt Dean's movement. Holding onto his brother's sleeve, Sam frowned. "What's wrong with your arm?"

He watched the play of emotions on his brother's face. Dean wanted to dismiss it. To lie. To cover up. But it was difficult to cover up an arm that was twitching. Badly.

"Dean, what…" Sam yanked his brother closer, staring at his left arm.

"I don't know." Dean sounded apologetic.

Sam pushed Dean's sleeve up, shocked to see scratches and redness up and down his arm.

"It just started itching." Dean reached over and scratched viciously.

"Stop." Sam knocked his hand away. He pulled his brother down to sit next to him on the bed as he continued looking at the scratches. "When did it start itching?"

"Uh...well, it was kind of itchy on the way back."

Sam hadn't thought anything of it at the time, but he did remember his brother distractedly scratching his arm a few times after they'd first returned to the motel room.

"It got really bad a few minutes ago." Dean started scratching again. "Maybe I should take an antihistamine or something?"

"You think you're having an allergic reaction?" Sam pulled his hand away again to stop him from scratching and met Dean's gaze.

"I don't know. Allergic reaction doesn't exactly explain this."

They stared down at his arm as it twitched disturbingly.

"What the hell?" Sam muttered, shaking his head. "Anything else I should know about?"

"I used up the last of your shampoo."

"I already knew that. I'm talking about right now. Any other symptoms you want to tell me about...or don't want to tell me about?"

"Well..."

Sam didn't like the sound of that.

"My arm's actually kind of numb."

Obviously Dean didn't like admitting it any more than Sam liked hearing it.

"Numb?"

"Yes. Numb. As in, I can't really feel it. Other than the itching," Dean said, his right hand moving to start scratching yet again.

"Don't." Sam smacked his hand away. "When did the numbness start?"

"About the time I picked up the damn coffee pot."

"That's why you dropped it?"

"No. I dropped it because I thought it would be hysterical to tear you out of the best ten minutes of sleep you've had in the last six months." Dean was trying to be funny, but the regret bled through every word.

Sam looked up from his analysis of Dean's arm and asked, "Can you move your fingers?"

"It just feels like I slept on it wrong." Dean wiggled his fingers. "I can move it but it's like it doesn't belong to me. It's just weird."

Determinedly not looking at Dean's right arm where the Mark continued to haunt them both, Sam said, "We should get it looked at, Dean."

"You're looking at it. I looked at it. What's a doctor gonna do?"

"A lot of tests."

"No." Dean wrenched his arm out of Sam's grasp and stood up. "I'm not having a stroke or something. Ok?"

How do you know? Sam's throat was too tight for him to get the words out. He watched Dean cross the small space back to the kitchenette. Is this something to do with the Mark? It's on his left arm, but it's probably related, right? What else could it be? It doesn't seem like an allergy if his arm's numb...

"Sam?"

"What?" He watched Dean drop some pieces of the coffee pot into the trash.

"Just go back to sleep. It's fine. Seriously."

"It's not fine." Sam hated that he sounded like a pouting child. Worry was bubbling in his gut like a volcano about to erupt. Lethargy, though, was weighing him down; making it hard to think clearly.

Dean was suddenly in front of him, shoving him backwards onto the pillows.

"I'll get something for the itch, ok?" Dean said, planting a hand on his chest to keep him from sitting up. "And if anything else goes numb or gets weird, I'll wake you up. Ok? Promise."

"You better."

Sam could barely keep his eyes open. They slid closed without his permission and he heard Dean moving across the room again. Despite Dean's assurance and his own exhaustion, there was no way he would be able to go back to sleep now. For a few minutes, though, he'd try to stay still. Allow his brother to think he was getting some sleep. Sam could problem solve just as easily with his eyes closed as he could with them open.

Itching, twitching, and numbness.

The symptoms were weird. The onset fairly rapid. No discernible cause. A true mystery. Sam didn't like mysteries when they involved his brother. There had been too many mysteries and secrets and nightmares all tangled and twisted up between them along with lies and half-truths and stupid decisions.

If they could never be honest with each other, how could they ever trust each other?

________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

Dean slumped into one of the chairs and rubbed his arm as he watched his brother. Shaking out his numb hand, Dean cursed himself for having dropped the coffee pot. It had been a surprise when Sam had fallen asleep in the first place, but it was going to be a miracle if he managed to fall back to sleep now.

This was supposed to have been an easy hunt. A fun hunt. Something to distract them both. A little ghost hunt in an actual haunted house on Halloween. Salt, burn, then indulge in some of the candy he'd stocked up on just for the occasion.

Good times.

Except nothing was good. Nothing at all. Instead of celebrating a successful hunt, they were back at square one. Instead of eating candy corn till he was sick, he was trying not to scratch his left arm raw. Instead of a distraction, all he'd done was give Sam something new to worry about.

Staring at his brother, he was surprised to realize he had fallen asleep again.

Dean sighed, a little tension easing out of his shoulders. He was tired just thinking about how tired his brother was. Despite Sam's occasional insistence to the contrary, Dean wasn't stupid. He knew the issue of the Mark was tearing his brother to pieces. Sam never went to bed before him and was always up first in the morning. The random times Dean had been awake in the middle of the night, he'd always found his brother awake, too. Still searching through endless piles of nothing, desperately hoping to find an answer.

Dean honestly didn't think there was an answer.

He stared at his right arm, running his fingers over the raised Mark. Jaw tight, he knew he was in trouble. They both knew it was affecting him, but only he knew exactly how bad. There was no way he'd tell Sam how hard he was fighting every day to avoid giving into the pull. The temptation.

It was getting worse, too.

Tugging his sleeve down, he rubbed his eyes and gritted his teeth against the itchy sensation of his left arm. It sucked, but an itchy, numb arm was a lot less awful than one branded with the Mark of Cain. Itchiness wasn't going to kill him or turn him into a demon. Itchiness he could deal with. Itchiness he could fix. Quietly pushing himself to his feet, he all but tiptoed across the room.

They had a beat up bottle of a cheap, store-brand antihistamine rolling around in the med kit. He'd picked it up after a case had involved a few too many cats and his allergies had kicked in big time. Grateful now that he'd kept it, he tapped out a couple into his palm and dry swallowed them. A quick glance at his brother showed that his pill rattling hadn't disturbed Sam's sleep. Relieved, he put the pill bottle back, cast a sorrowful look at the coffee-maker he could no longer use, and sat back down at the table.

Frowning, Dean closed his eyes and brought back the memory of the spooky little ghost kid.

Nothing had been said about a little boy haunting the place but obviously someone had missed something. Which, of course, begged the questions of when the kid had died and why hadn't anyone missed him? Whoever he'd been, he'd died back when knickers were still in style. Which could easily put his death around the same time as Abigail's. Had he been killed because he'd witnessed Abigail's death? Wrong place, wrong time? Or was his death completely unrelated? A pure coincidence?

He opened his eyes and stared blankly at the wall, trying to remember as much detail as he could about his encounter with the boy. Beyond the ghost's retro get-up and the bloody arms, the main thing that had stuck with him was what he'd felt.

Evil.

Dean shook his head.

Nothing made sense. There'd been no mention of a second ghost in any eye witness account that had been complied on the blog. Admittedly, the lore left a lot to be desired, but every witness agreed on one thing. The ghost had been a girl in her late teens with a ghastly butcher's knife sticking out of her heart. She hadn't hurt anyone, just scared them off.

Her actions tonight made no sense given her previous behavior.

He clenched his fist and forced himself to focus on the journal in front of him. After about fifteen minutes, he'd read more than he'd ever wanted to about life in a tiny village in the 1920s. Stirling Everett must have been a man of few words if his sparse journaling was anything to go by.

Patience wearing thin, he tried to ignore the way his stomach was beginning to twist uncomfortably.

The itching on his arm had died down a little, or maybe he just wasn't noticing it as much since nausea was becoming a far more pressing issue. He broke out in a sweat and closed his eyes, trying to breathe through it. Swallowing hard and telling himself he wasn't going to throw up wasn't quite the magic fix he'd hoped and he found himself rushing for the bathroom. After a round of vomiting, he splashed some cold water on his face and went back to the journal.

Over the next thirty minutes, he revisited the bathroom several more times and started getting suspicious this was a little more serious than just an upset stomach. He couldn't figure out how the itchy/twitchy arm could be in any way connected to his sudden bout of stomach upset, but did it really make sense that they weren't connected?

Coincidences don't happen coincidentally.

His head throbbed from the vomiting and from his insane thoughts.

Nothing made sense.

Settling back at the table after a more mild spell of vomiting, he realized he wasn't the only one in distress.

Sam was no longer sleeping peacefully. Shaking his head against the pillow, he was still sound asleep, but clearly in the throes of a nightmare. His hands were fisted in the bedding and he was whispering something too quietly for Dean to hear. Never a good sign.

For a few minutes, Dean just watched and waited. Most of the time, the nightmares would either run their course, or Sam would wake up gasping. Dean didn't intervene as much these days, but that didn't mean he didn't want to or that he didn't keep a close eye on the situation. They both had plenty of reasons for nightmares but it had been a long time since he'd witnessed his brother having one this bad.

When the nightmare passed the five minute mark and there were no signs of it diminishing or Sam waking up, Dean decided it had gone on long enough. He pushed himself up from the table and then nearly jumped out of his skin when Sam shouted his name at the top of his lungs. Heart pounding in his ears, Dean was almost to the bed when Sam went completely limp.

Dean's stomach hit the floor.

________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

"Sam!"

Sam jerked awake with a gasp at the sound of his brother's shout. Dean was leaning over him, face pale, and Sam was hit with a blast of terror so harsh it squeezed the breath right out of his lungs.

"Breathe, damn it!" Dean coached, shaking him by his shoulders. "Hey, come on focus!"

It took a moment before Sam could follow either of those directions. A moment filled with confusion and panic and remembered fear. His eyes went to Dean's right arm and he hated himself for needing to check to see if the Mark was glowing like it did in all of his dreams. But the Mark looked no different than it usually did and Sam remembered there was something wrong with Dean's left arm.

Looking back up at his brother, he asked, "Are you ok?"

"Yeah. I'm great. You about gave me a heart attack."

"Me?" Sam frowned, running a hand through his hair. His skin was warm and damp as if he'd just run a mile.

"You had a nightmare." Dean took a deep breath, sitting down on the other bed across from him. "Scared the crap out of me."

Sam didn't remember any specifics, but he'd had enough nightmares recently that it didn't take a lot of guesswork to know what it had been about. He took a shaky breath and said, "I don't remember falling asleep."

Everything was mixed up in his brain. Dark, fluid, confusing. Frightening.

"You basically passed out as soon as your head hit the pillow."

"How long?" Sam struggled up onto his elbow, trying to get a glimpse of the clock.

"An hour." Dean did not sound happy about it at all. "What the hell were you dreaming about?"

Sam swallowed hard against a rush of nausea so strong he was afraid he was going to throw up on the dirty carpet right then and there. He would never be able to put into words what he'd dreamed even if he could remember the specifics of this nightmare. He'd gotten Dean back from being a demon only to live under the constant threat of what the Mark was doing to him. To live under the constant threat of what would happen if Dean died again.

Inky black eyes filled with hatred haunted him every time he tried to sleep and taunted him during every waking hour.

"Sam?"

"Nothing." He managed to force the word out.

Lightheaded, he pushed himself to sit on the edge of the bed; hands planted on the bed, steadying himself. Once the sparklers faded from his vision, Dean's worry - bright in green eyes - was all he could see.

Clearing his throat, he said, "Sorry."

"You gotta get past this, man." Dean shook his head, features tight. "I'm fine, ok? Not going dark side again. Not dying anytime soon."

The words themselves were strong. Confident. The look in Dean's eyes, though, was anything but. And that's what scared Sam.

He licked his lips, mouth dry as hot pavement on a summer afternoon.

Dean sighed when he didn't say anything. He got up and went to the refrigerator and grabbed a bottle of water.

"Here." Dean nudged him in the shoulder with the bottle. "You look like you're gonna be sick."

He accepted the bottle of water and took a cautious sip.

"You haven't had one that bad in a long time," Dean said softly, sitting back down.

Not that you've noticed, anyway, Sam thought to himself. Aloud, he said, "You're the one who made me go to bed."

Dean shook his head but didn't comment.

Sam capped the bottle, memory coming back as the fog cleared from his brain. He looked at Dean's arm. It was trembling although Dean was trying to hide it by making a fist every few seconds. At least he could move his hand.

"Did you take something?" Sam asked.

"Yeah. It's not so itchy." Dean rubbed his hands together. "Still feels weird."

"What else?" Sam prompted. He frowned, noticing that his brother was sweating like it was a hundred degrees in the room.

"Nothing else."

There was something else. Something Dean didn't want to tell him. If Sam's heart hadn't already been pounding, it sure was now.

"Dean. What else is going on?"

Shifting uncomfortably, Dean said, "I dunno. I feel off."

At the surprisingly easy admission, alarm bells blared in Sam's head.

"Off how?" Sam set the bottle of water aside, fully alert.

"Just little stuff." Dean shrugged. "Feel a bit dizzy. Sick to my stomach."

"How sick?"

"Threw up a few times."

"A few times?"

"Yeah, Sam. A few. It's not a big deal." He sounded testy now. "Probably coming down with the flu or something."

Sam would have been more likely to agree to that possibility if it weren't for Dean's itchy, numb, and still twitching arm. Something else was going on. Dean was pale and sweaty. He also looked drowsy and Sam decided he might be able to help with at least one symptom.

"Ok. How about you try to get some sleep now?" he asked, preparing for an argument. "I'll look through the research for a bit."

Instead of arguing, Dean just nodded and settled back on the bed. He rested his right arm over his eyes; his left continued to twitch disturbingly at his side. His breathing was even and easy, though. If it hadn't been for how simple it had been to get him to lie down, Sam might have been more likely to pass the whole thing off for what Dean had suggested.

The flu.

But he'd seen Dean down with the flu; both mild and severe. In neither case did he ever give in so easily. And never once had his arm twitched the way it was right now.

Sam stared at his brother's arm, his sluggish brain trying to come up with a reason. An explanation. Nothing presented itself, though, and it was getting more and more difficult to sit on the edge of his bed without wanting to fall back into it.

Prepared for the head rush, Sam cautiously pushed himself to his feet. He crossed the room and was relieved to find there was still a little coffee in his brother's cup. Maybe it would be enough to keep him going until he could make it to a diner for some more coffee and breakfast. Turning, to look at his brother, he drained the cup in two sips.

Before he'd even finished the second sip, Dean was pushing himself upright.

"Dean?"

Face sheet white, he waved a hand to the bathroom. He sat on the edge of the bed, swaying slightly, sweat beading on his forehead.

"You gonna be sick?" Sam took a step forward.

"Just need to use the bathroom," Dean mumbled, getting to his feet. "Don't make a big deal out of everything."

Sam raised his eyebrows as Dean made his way unsteadily to the bathroom. He was staggering, right hand out as if to catch himself if he stumbled. Holding his breath, Sam prepared to go to his brother's aid if needed. But he made it without incident and pulled the door closed behind him.

With a sigh, Sam went to the table and started looking through the papers again. He was tempted to make the executive decision that it was time to throw everything out, and let someone else worry about damned haunted house. Neither of them were up to this. Hadn't been even before they'd gotten here, but now things were taking a definite turn for the worse.

He looked up a moment later as the bathroom door opened.

Flu or not, Dean wasn't looking good. He took a step forward and wavered like he was drunk.

"Hey, take it easy." Sam hurried to his side.

"Sam," Dean reached out a fumbling hand.

"What?"

"I...I can't remember...what happened."

"What happened when?" Sam guided him back to the bed. Dean was close to panic so he had to stay calm. "Dean, what don't you remember?"

"What happened. I can't remember what happened. Am I sick?"

"Yeah, you are." Sam nodded. Sick enough I think a hospital visit is in the very near future.

"I feel weird." He flopped backwards, one foot still on the ground.

"Weird how?"

Dean frowned, staring up at the ceiling. His left hand was still twitching but he didn't seem to notice. "Feel like I'm floating."

"You're flat on the bed."

"Feel like I'm floating," Dean insisted, squinting as he tried to focus on Sam's face. "Am I high?"

"Honestly...I don't know."

"You look like you're freaking out."

"I am not." Sam was shaking, his mouth was bone dry, and he was totally freaking out.

Dean laughed. It sounded a little hysterical.

Sam frowned. "Hey, I need you need to focus."

"Can't focus." Dean reached out and grabbed Sam's arm, pulling him down into a crouch next to the bed. "Do you not hear that?"

"Hear what?"

"That noise."

"Why are you whispering?" Sam asked, his own voice a matching whisper.

Dean shook his head, his eyes unfocused. He was listening. To what, Sam wasn't sure.

After a minute, Dean blinked hard and said, "Sam. I'm going crazy."

"Dean-"

"I'm hearing things. I know I'm hearing things." Dean tightened his grip on Sam's arm. "I know I'm going crazy. What's happening to me? What are you doing to me?"

"What am I doing to you?" Sam tried to overcome the whiplash Dean's scattered thoughts were giving him. "I'm not doing anything to you."

"Yeah, yeah. I know. Sorry. I know." Dean squeezed his eyes closed. "Everything's...Can't think straight."

Before Sam could say anything, Dean released his grip, shoving himself to the far side of the bed. He stood up only to stagger into the wall. He turned around, back to the wall and started sliding to the floor. Sam rushed around the bed in time to slow his descent.

"Sammy," Dean said, reaching out, his eyes wide as he sat down on the floor. "Sammy, I feel so floaty. And…"

His voice trailed off as his gaze drifted around the room.

Sam frowned, fighting the urge to follow his brother's gaze. There wasn't anything to see. That much Sam was sure of. Whatever Dean was seeing was something only he could see.

"Dean. Look at me. What's wrong? What are you seeing?"

Slamming his eyes closed, Dean groaned, both his hands fisting in Sam's shirt. "It's like that guy….that guy...the guy who painted."

If the situation wasn't so terrible, Sam would have laughed at that description.

"Oh man, oh man, Sammy you gotta stop it. You gotta help me."

"Hey, hey, calm down, I'm right here. Calm down and tell me what you're seeing. What guy who painted?"

Dean still had his eyes squeezed closed. He tightened his grip and yanked Sam closer until his head was resting against Sam's chest. He whispered, "Go. Go. Go."

"Go where? Dean?"

"Not go." Dean started laughing. "Gogh. Van Gogh."

"You're seeing Vincent Van Gogh?"

Dean laughed again. "No. Don't be an idiot. It's just… everything looks funny. Like it's blurry and melty and...ah!"

He broke off and shoved Sam so hard he fell onto his butt.

"What the hell?" Sam asked, jaw dropping as his brother stared at him with a horrified expression.

"Sam, Sam, make it stop!" Dean was laughing even as he cowered against the wall. "Oh man, you're so damn gory. You're melting. I can't...I can't look at you. I can't look at anything. I'm going to float away and that buzzing won't stop!"

A second later, Sam had an armful of big brother. An armful of honest to goodness crying big brother. He was still laughing, but he was crying, too, and Sam didn't know what to do about any of it.

Taking a deep breath, Sam shoved the panic deep down. Switching the terrified little brother off wasn't easy but he did it anyway.

"Dean, I know you're not feeling well but I need you to try to help me out here." Sam put one hand on the back of Dean's head, trying to make him feel safe, even as his own hands were trembling with fear. "You're hearing things. And you're seeing things-"

"I'm not crazy!" Dean mumbled against Sam's chest.

"No, you aren't," Sam assured him, not even remotely interested in teasing him. "But something is affecting you. Giving you all these symptoms. You think it could be related to the case? Ghost sickness maybe?"

"Don't say that. Don't! I already had that. I should be immune right?" He lifted his head, eyes beseeching. "Please tell me I'm immune!"

"I don't know."

"I don't want that again. I don't want ghost sickness!" His gaze drifted around the room. "Why do ghosts do this to me?"

"We don't know that -"

Sam didn't get to finish his statement because Dean shoved him away again. Too stunned to react, he watched in shock as Dean lunged for the nightstand where his gun was sitting. After grabbing his gun, he positioned himself between Sam and the door.

"Get back, Sammy, I've got this."

"Got what?" Sam's heart was in his throat. He was getting whiplash from the changes in Dean's moods. "What are you doing? Do not fire your gun. There's nothing there."

"Sam." Dean was panting, one hand on the edge of the bed. He was wavering where he knelt. "I'm seeing things, right?"

"Yeah. Yeah, you are. Uh...what are you seeing right now?"

"They're all alive. They look like...they look like they're all alive…"

Sam inched forward. "What looks like they're all alive?"

"The stuff. The dresser...the chairs… stuff that shouldn't be alive." Dean sounded close to tears again. "Sam, they're not real, right? They're not alive, right? Please tell me I'm not crazy."

"You're not crazy." Sam cautiously reached for the gun. "What you're seeing isn't real. How about you give me the gun?"

Dean nodded, slouching back against the bed. He didn't release the gun yet, though. Sam held his breath and watched his brother. There was an internal struggle going on, that was obvious. Sweaty, shaky, eyes too wide, he looked like he was losing his mind.

Sam slowly reached out and took the gun from his brother's hand.

Dean released it easily and said, "I feel like crap."

"Hey!" Sam barely had time to set the gun on the bed before he found himself with an armful of big brother again. "Dean?"

Nothing.

Dean slumped bonelessly against him, eyes closed.

Sam wondered if now would be an appropriate time to have a nervous breakdown.

________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

to be continued...


	2. Chapter Two

Fingers pressed to his eyes, Sam tried to convince himself he could figure this out.

Twelve and a half minutes so far, and he hadn't convinced himself yet.

Lowering his hands, he stared down at the open tab on his laptop. Twelve and a half minutes, and he'd scrolled through fifty-six of the ninety-seven possible causes listed on WebMD for patients experiencing symptoms like Dean's.

Nausea and vomiting.

Visual and auditory hallucinations.

Itching.

Twitching.

Sweating.

Confusion.

Mood changes.

"Wonderful," he muttered, looking over the list of possibilities. "Gastroenteritis, Lyme's disease, alcohol intoxication..."

He would lean toward alcohol intoxication as the most likely culprit, except Dean had been relatively sober lately. Trying not to tempt the Mark. The other options admittedly were freaking him out. They had recently been in an area of the country where Lyme's disease was common.

He slammed the lid down on his laptop.

This was getting him nowhere. He shook his head, casting yet another glance at his brother.

Dean was still out; asleep or unconscious, it didn't really matter. Either way, he hadn't stirred in the past twelve and a half minutes. Leaving him on the floor, Sam had put a pillow under his head, tossed a blanket over him and hoped a little sleep would help. As if sleep is going to help if he's dying of some horrible disease.

Running a hand through his hair, Sam watched his brother's easy breathing. If he didn't look too closely, he could ignore the sight of Dean's left arm twitching under the blanket. At least he couldn't see the Mark on his right arm, Sam thought, fear running up his spine and along his ribs, constricting his breathing.

"Think," Sam muttered to himself. He looked back at the letters and journal still piled on the table. "This has to be related to the hunt. It has to be."

Unless it's something related to the Mark. Or any one of those ninety-seven horrifying natural causes.

"No! Damn it, focus!"

Everything was getting tangled up in his brain. Things that probably weren't related seemed to blend into the most logical connections. Things that should've been clear were muddied.

He was losing his mind.

Stumbling the few feet between the chair and the bed, he almost reached down to check for a pulse. Dean looked too still, too quiet. But his chest was still rising and falling easily. Sam dropped onto the edge of the bed, thoughts swirling.

I can't do this again. I can't watch him become something he isn't. I can't watch him...die.

Traitorous tears burned and he jammed the heels of his hands against his eyes to prevent the tears from falling. He didn't have time to lose focus like this. But that was exactly what was happening.

For awhile, he'd kept it together. As long as he could stay busy. As long as he could dig into the lore on the Mark. As long as he could try to find a cure.

But he couldn't do any of that because Dean had insisted on taking this stupid haunted house case because it was Halloween. Sam had given in to Dean's pestering even though taking a case was the last thing he'd wanted to do.

Now, Dean was sick and he was falling apart.

Shoving himself to his feet, he looked at his brother through blurry eyes, then turned away. Sam hurried over to the bathroom. Head lowered, he leaned on the countertop and splashed cold water on his overheated face. Choking back the fear that had tightened into a fist behind his ribs, he fought to get himself back under control.

This was on him.

All of it.

________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

Dean woke up slowly.

Weighed down as if he was surfacing from underwater, he almost sank back into the thick mire of sleep. It would be easier. Easier to sleep than it would be to face...whatever he had to face. His mind was syrupy and shifting from scene to scene without his consent. It took what seemed like hours for him to pull himself to full wakefulness; or at least what counted for full wakefulness right now with all the crazy running through his veins.

Keeping his eyes closed, he managed to pull his thoughts together. He remembered the haunted house. Remembered his arm itching all the way back to the motel. Everything was a little fuzzy after that, but he remembered enough to know he'd been acting crazy.

Really crazy.

The why eluded him, but he all too clearly remembered how freaked out he'd been.

Was I crying? He clumsily scrubbed a hand over his face. Crap! I think I was.

The mortification left him wishing he could go back to sleep. But he was awake now and it was time to figure out what the hell was happening to him. Forcing his eyes open, he steeled himself for the terrifying view of reality he'd been faced with earlier.

Ugh!

There was no way to prepare for this.

It was like a bad trip tangled up with a nightmare melded with a cartoon rendition of Expressionist art.

Just like before, everything around him seemed alive. Moving of their own accord, the painting on the wall, the chair, and the table danced around him, whispering to him. If he hadn't been excruciatingly aware of the fact he was very obviously hallucinating, he would have asked them what the heck they wanted. One hand pressed flat to the carpet, he struggled to push the blanket off himself with the other.

He left me on the floor? Disgusting. Thanks, Sam.

Irritation was quickly replaced by concern. Because if he was on the floor with a blanket over him and a pillow under his head, where was his brother? He fumbled for the edge of the bed and pulled himself up to a sitting position. The movement left him with the unsettling sensation of antigravity. Like he'd jumped off a bridge and the bungee cord had just snapped him upwards again.

Fisting both hands in the bedspread, he collapsed sideways against the bed, struggling not to be sick. Heat and chill swept over him at intervals and he wiped his sweaty face against the bedspread.

What is happening to me?

When the sick sensation eased a little, he opened one eye, pressed his chin on the edge of the bed and tried to look around the wavering room. At first all he could see was colors. Colors blending and blurring and pulsing.

Where's Sam?

He rubbed his eyes with his trembling left hand; right still twisted in the bedspread to hold him steady.

Where is he?

It took him a moment to get his mouth to work. Clearing his throat, he called out his brother's name. No response. Pressing his forehead against his fist, he strained his ears. Maybe at least one of his senses might still be useful.

He tuned into the sound of water running.

Ok. Bathroom. Sam's in the bathroom.

Lifting his head again, he blinked a few thousand times and managed to bring the bathroom into focus. Door open, Sam was leaning on the counter, both hands gripping the edges. His face was as white as the tile.

"Sam?" Dean tried calling again.

This time Sam must have heard him. He jerked upright so fast he almost fell over. Reaching out, he grabbed ahold of the door frame.

"Dean?" His voice was shaking as much as the rest of him was.

"You alright?" Dean pushed himself to his knees.

"I'm fine."

Yeah, you look like you're fine. Elbows resting on the bed, Dean narrowed his eyes as if it would clear his vision. "You sick?"

"I just said I'm fine," Sam snapped, breath punching in and out of his lungs like he'd only now remembered how to breathe. He took an unsteady step forward and maybe the world was wobbling just as much for him as it was for Dean.

The passing thought that whatever was affecting him might also be affecting Sam crossed Dean's mind but he quickly dismissed it. He knew what was going on with his brother and it had nothing to do with the haunted house. What was going on with Sam was months of stress and anxiety wearing him down until Dean wasn't sure how he was even still functional.

"How're you doing?" Sam asked, crossing the room.

Dean had to close his eyes because the sight of his brother morphing and melting and blurring left him torn between the idea of laughing at the unsettling creep factor or crying because his head was so screwed up.

"Oh, I'm just peachy." He opened his eyes again when the bed shifted under his elbows.

Sam was studying him with a gaze that might have been assessing or studious at any other time. Right now, he just looked flat out scared. And, ok, Dean could sort of understand being scared. He was a little scared himself.

"Dean, I gotta go back."

"Back where?" In his opinion, neither of them should be going anywhere.

"That house." Sam was trying hard to keep his voice steady. "Something...something's affecting you. It makes sense, right? Something happened to you back at that house."

It was true, but Dean didn't comment. He didn't know what had happened. Debating whether or not Sam should go back was only going to get them into an argument that neither of them were up to dealing with right now, though. He needed to focus.

The room was fluctuating like a mirror being flexed in front of him and, while he was managing to keep the disturbing hallucinations in check right now, he wasn't sure how much longer he would be able to. But he had to hold himself together somehow because Sam looked like he was two minutes away from a complete freak-out.

"What about the letters?" Dean's voice caught uncomfortably as the television set came alive and joined the chair in mocking him. Why did they both have to grow teeth? He cleared his throat, slamming his eyes closed, and said, "There might be something in them."

"Maybe. Are you seeing things again?"

"Oh yeah." Dean huffed, peering with one eye at the television. The teeth were chomping dangerously and he closed his eye. "Think the little nap must've helped 'cuz at least I'm keeping track a bit better. I mean, I know the tv doesn't have teeth."

Sam laughed a little, then sighed. "None of this makes sense."

"Agreed." Dean pressed his forehead against the edge of the bed, still hanging on for dear life. "I wasn't coming up with anything interesting in that journal. Couldn't figure out who the second ghost was."

"You said it was a kid?"

"Yeah. A little boy. Looked like he was from the same time period as Abigail." Dean pushed his head up, braving a room full of living furniture and whispered, "Did you hear that?"

"Hear what?" Sam whispered back. He was blurry and distorted, but obviously reaching for his gun.

"Bells." Dean rubbed his ears hard. "Crap, I'm hearing things, aren't I?"

"Apparently."

The bed shifted as Sam got to his feet and Dean reached out a hand. "Where're you going?"

There was an embarrassing note of panic in his tone.

"I'm just grabbing some stuff," Sam said, patting him on the head. "I'll be right back."

Dean glared at his back as he walked to the table. He might be hearing things and seeing things but he wasn't crazy and he didn't need to be treated like a baby.

Head patting was unacceptable.

Gritting his teeth, he pushed himself up to sit on the edge of the bed. The room bent and folded and swirled around him nauseatingly, but that wasn't his most pressing issue.

Past the ringing in his ears and the freak show before his eyes, he needed the bathroom. Wasn't like he'd had that much coffee or water or anything, but he really needed to go.

"Hey, what're you-"

"Bathroom." Dean waved a hand as he got to his feet.

Staggering like a drunk, he only made it two feet before he had an escort. Under any other circumstances, he would've shoved off his brother's assistance, but today? Today, he leaned into it.

Halfway to the bathroom, he froze. Whispering again, he asked, "It's not real right? Cuz I wanna shoot it."

Sam's grip on his arm tightened. "What do you mean?"

"The monster."

"What monster?"

"The one in the picture." Dean motioned to the painting over the bed. "I know it's not real but it looks real and I need to kill it."

"No." Sam hustled him forward again. "No shooting things that aren't there. I'll tell you if there's something to shoot, ok?"

"But that damn thing has fangs the size of -"

"Dean."

"What?"

"It's a landscape."

"What is?" Dean narrowed his eyes at the green creature foaming at the mouth and waving at him.

"It's a landscape. The painting." Sam laughed. "Dude, there's nothing there but grass and sky. Stop looking at it and go to the bathroom or do you need me to-"

"Get away from me or I'll shoot you." Dean shoved him away and yanked the door shut.

"Don't lock that door!" Sam shouted.

Dean could hear him laughing despite the closed door.

It was official.

This Halloween sucked.

________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

This Halloween sucked.

Sam stared at the closed door, hating every single thing about this case. Sure, it was a little funny listening to his brother rant about monsters when he was staring at a placid landscape. But mostly, Sam was just plain sick and tired of his brother not being his brother.

He walked to the window and pulled the curtain back for the first time all morning. The weather was gloomy and rainy. It matched his mood perfectly.

Resting his head against the cool glass, Sam closed his eyes. His head was pounding and he was sick to his stomach. They needed to eat. Glancing at his watch, he realized it was later than he'd thought. After being up all night, they definitely needed food.

Food and then back to research.

Or maybe hospital, then food?

Sam couldn't make up his mind. So far, the physical symptoms didn't seem to be putting Dean's life in jeopardy. Inconvenient and freaky, yes, but not life-threatening. Yet.

Maybe a hospital wouldn't be a bad idea.

Just get him checked out. Make sure nothing serious was going on.

Of course, if he acts batty in front of the doctor, they're gonna send him for a psych eval.

An even worse possibility entered his mind as he considered the Mark. If all of this was related to the Mark, then the freaky symptoms could progress to dangerous symptoms.

"Basically, we're screwed," Sam said to the empty room. He turned as the bathroom door opened.

Dean didn't look any worse for wear. Pale, tired, strung out, but no worse.

"This sucks," he said, leaning on the door frame.

"Yeah. It does."

Nodding, Dean studied him for a moment, then said, "We need to eat."

"I was thinking the same thing. You gonna be able to handle going out or you want me to grab something and bring it back?"

Dean hesitated. He pressed his fingers to his eyes and said, "I'm not sure."

"Still hallucinating?"

"Yeah. But I can tell the difference. I know...I know what's going on." His smile was weak. "Mostly."

"Ok." Sam wanted to suggest he stay put, but could tell his brother didn't really want to be alone. "How about we just hit a drive through? We can bring it back here and get back to work."

Dean's relief was obvious, but he said, "We're gonna need to stop at the library, too. Look for newspaper articles. We need more information."

Sam nodded slowly. He was right, but the question was, would Dean be able to keep it together long enough to get more information?

"I'll stay in the car if it gets bad," Dean said, reading his mind. "If I can't handle it, I'll stay in the car and you can make photocopies of everything."

It wasn't perfect but it would have to do.

"Ok. But I'm driving," Sam said, snatching the keys before Dean could.

"I…" Dean's voice trailed off. He was eyeing the mini-fridge warily.

Sam patted him on the shoulder and said, "My point exactly. I'm driving."

"Yeah, ok." Dean yanked his jacket off the back of the chair, edging as close to Sam as he could get.

"If I knew with complete certainty this wasn't anything serious," Sam said, holding the door open, "this would be hilarious."

"This isn't hilarious." Dean flinched at something that wasn't there and muttered, "At all."

Sam stifled his smile and led the way to the car.

Ten minutes later, he was sitting in a drive through line watching his brother make a run into the restaurant for the bathroom. Sam shook his head, concern growing. Dean had said he wasn't sick to his stomach, just had to go which made no sense since he'd gone just before they'd left the motel.

Waiting for their food, Sam pulled up the search he'd started earlier in the motel room and started going through the next forty-one possibilities.

Cocaine abuse - Huh. Probably can rule that one out.

Schizophrenia - Probably not.

Stroke - That's a scary thought.

Brain tumor.

"Brain tumor?" he whispered aloud.

The thought that Dean could be dying of a brain tumor absolutely terrified him. They could figure out a lot of stuff. Could fight a lot of stuff. Could deal with almost anything. But what were they going to do about a brain tumor? If Dean died again...the Mark would...

A horn honking behind him drew him out of his spiraling thoughts. Shaking himself, he inched the car forward. Waiting, once again, he looked back at his phone and tried to look at something other than the big, bold words: Brain Tumor.

A tapping at his window had him jumping before he had the chance to read through the rest of the article.

Dean yanked the door open and sat down. "This is the slowest line ever."

Sam nodded, not able to speak yet.

"What's the matter with you? What happened?"

"Nothing." Sam cleared his throat, shoving his phone into his pocket and pulling the car up to the window. He paid for their food and handed everything to his brother.

"Sam," Dean said, a cup of hot coffee balanced on each knee. "What's going on?"

"I'm fine. You survive your trip to the bathroom or did you have to fight off any monsters?"

"Well, the paper towel dispenser gave me a dirty look, but I didn't lose my mind. Didn't shoot anything, either."

"Good. Still hearing bells?"

"Nope." Dean took a sip of coffee. "Actually I feel better than earlier. Maybe there's something in the room."

"Maybe." Sam took a slow breath, considering the possibility.

"Seriously," Dean interrupted his thoughts. "What the hell happened in the five minutes I was gone?"

"Nothing."

"For some reason, I just don't believe you."

"Well, that's your problem, isn't it?" Sam snapped, taking a left out of the driveway. He turned the wipers on and changed the subject. "What's up with your suddenly tiny bladder?"

"That's actually a very good question." Dean snorted. "I don't know, man. When ya gotta go, you gotta go."

Sam shook his head. It had to be another symptom of...whatever. Wishing he'd had time to read the last article he'd found, Sam tried to focus on the road. There'd be time when they got back to the motel room to figure out if Dean was dying of a brain tumor or not.

A thought suddenly hitting him, he asked, "Did you touch anything? Back at the house?"

"No. I walked through the entire place and didn't touch anything." Dean rolled his eyes. "We were searching the place, Sam."

"I know that." Sam waved his hand, dismissing Dean's sarcasm. "But what specifically did you touch?"

"Opened a couple doors." Dean shrugged.

"You knocked over that shelf."

"Yeah." Dean frowned, puzzled. He shrugged. "I don't know. I touched a lot of stuff. We both did. What's your point? You think I got infected somehow?"

"Maybe. It's a possibility." Sam rubbed his neck. "I don't know what to think."

"What did your search turn up? I saw you on your phone. You find anything?"

"Not sure."

"I feel a little less nuts right now." Dean took a sip of his coffee, then asked, "Maybe it's getting better?"

"You said the paper towel dispenser gave you a dirty look." Sam shook his head. "That's not better."

"Well, other than that I feel better. Besides, I knew it wasn't real."

"Does it really matter?"

"You tell me. You're the one with a history of hallucinations and delusions."

He hadn't intended to be nasty, Sam knew that. Didn't mean the comment didn't sting. A lot. It had only been a couple years since his brain had been falling to pieces and reality had been a fluid concept. Maybe he'd get to the place where he could laugh about it, but he wasn't there yet.

"Sorry," Dean said after the uncomfortable silence continued for two blocks. "That was stupid."

"It's fine."

"No, it's not."

"Dean-"

"Seriously. It was a low blow and...I don't know...I'm an idiot sometimes, Sammy."

"I'm not going to argue that point." Sam smiled, glancing at his brother and seeing the genuine apology in his eyes. The tension broke between them and Sam could breathe again.

"Since I'm the one who's seeing the world like it's some kind of freaky watercolor painting, I can't argue the point, either."

Sam frowned as he pulled the car into the library parking lot. "Still seeing things?"

Dean squinted, then smiled. "Actually, not right now. Maybe it's getting better or maybe I'm just adapting."

"But how do we really know which it is?"

"I have no idea." Dean took a deep breath, handing one of the cups of coffee over. "Let's take advantage of it while it lasts, huh?"

Sam nodded. "Eat your breakfast, then we'll go in."

Forty minutes later, Sam was again staring at the list of potential causes for Dean's symptoms. Hands pressed to his head, he tried to make sense of the blurry words floating on the screen while trying to block out the sounds of his brother throwing up everything he'd just eaten. It was distracting to say the least.

They'd made it through the library without incident. Even when they'd returned to the motel, Dean had seemed alright at first. It hadn't been long, though, before his symptoms had worsened and he'd been almost as panic-stricken as he'd been earlier. And then he'd made a bee-line for the bathroom.

So much for better.

The only good thing - if it could be called that - was that he'd found something that seemed to fit most, if not all, of Dean's symptoms. It also made more sense then most of the other options. Question was, if he was right about this, how had Dean been exposed?

Maybe that's not the most important question, Sam mused, closing his eyes. Or maybe it is?

He straightened when he heard Dean shout his name.

"Dean?" He stumbled and almost fell on his face in his rush to cross the room. "What's wrong?"

Instead of an answer, Dean practically ripped the door off its hinges as he opened it. He looked terrified and out of control. Sweat-soaked and wild-eyed, he grabbed Sam's arm.

"What's happening to me?"

I don't know! Sam swallowed hard, pulling his brother out of the doorway and sitting him down on his bed. His own panic barely controlled, Sam kept his voice even and said, "Take a breath, man."

"Is it the Mark?" Dean was shoving his sleeve up.

Sam had a hard time tearing his gaze away from the Mark, but shook his head and said, "I don't think so."

"Wonderful," Dean muttered, attention leaving his right arm as he began to viciously scratch his left.

"Hey! Stop scratching," Sam batted his hand away. Dean's left arm was already red and raw. "Take another antihistamine."

Dean griped about it, but grabbed the pill bottle and took one. Finishing a sip of water, he asked, "So what do you think is going on with me?"

"I think you were poisoned."

Dean stared at him, eyebrows raised. "Poisoned?"

"Yeah. I don't know for sure. But-"

"I'm seeing things." Dean looked around the room, cringing.

"I know." Sam frowned. "You've been seeing things for the past few hours. Why are you so freaked out right now?"

"A few hours?" Dean wavered where he sat. He looked like he might pass out. "It's been...hours?"

Sam nodded, seeing the confusion in his brother's eyes. "You don't remember-"

"Everything's all...jumbled." He closed his eyes and started scratching his left arm again. He stopped before Sam could tell him to, though, and they both stared at his arm. The twitching wasn't necessarily worse, but it wasn't better, either. After a moment, he asked, "You said poison?"

"It's a possibility. I did a search and put in a bunch of your symptoms-"

"And came up with poison?"

Among other things. He refused to think about the brain tumor. Still watching Dean rub his arm, he said, "The effects of a certain mushroom match your symptoms."

At that, Dean's eyes flew open and his expression was a cross between absolute confusion and amusement. He also looked dizzy and ill, but he smiled and asked, "I'm high on a 'shroom?"

The tension pounding through his entire body released for a second and Sam sat down next to his brother and laughed.

"Sammy." Dean was whining now. "I hate 'shrooms."

"I know."

"Why'd you feed me-"

"Dude. I did not give you mushrooms of any sort. Stop blaming me for this."

Dean shook out his twitching arm, his eyes going blank like he was listening to something.

Sam snapped his fingers in front of Dean's face and said, "Hey. Don't tune me out. What're you hearing?"

"Hum changed pitch. Distracting." Dean grimaced, sticking a finger in his ear. "So why am I high on fungi?"

"Well, technically, we don't know for sure that's what it is. And I have no idea. But all your symptoms started after we left that house."

"So there's gotta be a link."

"It makes sense." Sam shrugged.

"The house is haunted by a girl stabbed in the chest with a butcher's knife. How do poisonous mushrooms come into play?"

"No idea."

Dean scratched at his left arm and Sam was just about to yell at him to stop when Dean abruptly did just that. Sam frowned and asked, "What's wrong?"

"What symptoms did you look up?"

"All of them. Why?"

"Itching, too?" Dean held out his scratched raw arm.

"Yeah."

"I think I know how that kid died." Dean's eyes widened. "I think he was poisoned."

"What are you talking about?" Sam shook his head. He was at a complete loss.

"When I saw him...his arms were raw and bloody," Dean explained, motioning to his own arm. "I think he scratched his arms. A lot."

Sam's jaw dropped. "You didn't think to mention that until just now?"

"I didn't think it was important...till now."

"You should have told me the kid's arms were bloody!"

"I'm sorry!" Dean said, lifting his hands. "I was a little more worried about you at that moment. I didn't really care what the ghost looked like, ok? You'd just been thrown down a staircase. I wanted to wrap up and get out."

Sam's anger fizzled away. He sighed, slouching in the chair. "You're right. I'm sorry. I just… I don't know… I don't understand how any of this fits together."

"We'll figure it out. We will."

"Hey, where're you going?" Sam grabbed his brother's arm as he abruptly teetered to his feet.

"Tiny bladder calls." Dean waved a hand in the general direction of the bathroom. "Tell me this is part of the symptoms and it's not that I'm getting old."

Helping his brother get to the door without stumbling into a wall, Sam said, "Frequent urination is a side effect, yes. Dehydration is too, so when you're done, you're drinking a bottle of water."

Dean groaned and slammed the door in his face.

Sam went to the mini-fridge and grabbed a bottle. He stared out at the neverending rain and tried to keep his focus on the problem at hand. There were still a ton of unanswered questions. If the ghost was somehow causing Dean's symptoms, how was he doing it? And why? How and why had the little boy died of mushroom poisoning? Who was the little boy?

And, maybe most confusing of all: what did a little boy who died from eating poisonous mushrooms have to do with a girl stabbed in the heart?

He stared at the journal and stack of letters on the table. Nothing had turned up so far, but maybe there was something yet to be found. He should get back at it.

Instead, he closed his eyes and wished his brother would stop arguing with the shower curtain.

________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

"Damn it!" Dean yanked the shower curtain to one side.

He was getting really sick of seeing things.

"Just leave me alone," he muttered, turning away from the billowing monster with rusty hooks and mildew spots. "This is ridiculous."

It was definitely ridiculous, but there wasn't much he could do about it. When they'd been in town, the constant hum in his head had gone down a notch and the hallucinations weren't as vivid. Now, things were back to crazy.

"Which is probably what you already are since you just punched a shower curtain and are now talking to yourself."

Shaking his head, he glared at himself in the dirty mirror. Leaning down, he turned on the faucet and splashed his face with some cold water. Everything was muddling together, his sane thoughts bobbed and weaved through the insanity and he wondered if this was how Sam had felt when he'd been battling the hallucinations of Lucifer.

His stomach churned just thinking about it even as a new sense of pride filled him at the realization of how hard his brother had fought to maintain his sanity.

He straightened and wiped his face on the towel, pulling himself together as best as he could. This simple hunt was not turning out to be anywhere near as simple as he'd expected. Two ghosts when there'd only supposed to be one. And a mysterious mushroom poisoning. He'd just wanted a quick, easy hunt. Something they could do with their eyes closed. Something to get both their minds off the Mark and everything else.

Salt, burn, then Halloween candy and a horror movie marathon after.

A glance at his watch revealed there were still plenty of hours in the day. They could still make this happen. He hadn't told his brother about his post-hunt plans and, as far as he knew, Sam hadn't discovered the two ginormous bags of candy he'd hidden at the very back of the trunk. Good times were still ahead if he could stay focused.

With a final glare at the shower curtain, he pulled the door open.

Ready to get down to business and figure out what to do next, he was floored to find Sam slumped at the table, head pillowed on his arms. Sound asleep. It was a good sign, even if it meant the one who currently was seeing all the furniture as living, breathing entities would be the one doing the next round of research. Dean smiled, walking cautiously toward the table. Sam wouldn't sleep long, but Dean was going to do whatever he could in the meantime.

Despite the hassle of trying to research with a brain that was intent on confusing itself and a bladder that insisted on bathroom breaks every ten minutes, by the time Sam jolted awake, Dean actually had some answers.

"Good afternoon, sleepyhead," Dean greeted casually.

Sam sucked in an unsteady breath, gaze bouncing around the room as he tried to reorient himself.

Dean wondered if it was the Mark Sam kept dreaming about but he was too afraid to ask. He was having plenty of nightmares himself lately and they always included the terrifying sensation of his free will being stripped away by the curse on his arm. Most of the time, he woke up choking back a scream at the too-real sensation of killing his brother with his own hands.

Are you dreaming of me killing you? He wondered, studying his brother.

He'd always thought his worst nightmare was Sam dying, but now he knew it could be even worse; he could be the one to kill his brother. Once upon a time, he'd believed there was nothing in the world that could make him lift a finger to hurt Sam. With the Mark's power surging through his entire being, Dean wondered if he'd be strong enough to resist.

I dream about it and it feels right. It feels good.

He fought back the urge to vomit.

"Dean?"

"Yeah?" He clenched his fists against his knees under the table, trying to keep his expression neutral. Calm.

Sam shook his head, frowning as he glanced from the window, to the table, then back at Dean. He rubbed his eyes and mumbled, "Sorry. You ok?"

"I'm good. Think I've got an idea of what the hell's going on with that house."

"Really?" Sam perked up a little which wasn't really saying much since he still looked like month-old roadkill.

I'm going to have to either get you drunk enough to pass out or drug your coffee. You need more than hour long cat naps.

Aloud, Dean said, "I don't have all the pieces figured out, but some of it is starting to make sense."

Sam nodded, sitting up straighter and shifting into his bone-tired but laser-focused mode. Engage his brain with something juicy and he could keep going for a few hours, anyway. Long enough to finish this case and then get settled in with some chocolate and a movie.

"Ok. What have you got?"

"I think I figured out who the kid is. Was." Dean unclenched his fists and shuffled around the piles of printouts on the table until he found his hastily scribbled notes. "The town didn't have a newspaper at the time of Abigail's death, so all we've got to go on were some articles from the bigger town where her uncle's trial was held."

"Right." Sam tapped a printout of a newspaper article from the 1970s. "And a few articles from when people started talking about their interaction with the ghost with the knife in her chest."

Dean nodded, tapping the journal. "This wasn't very helpful, but I finally found a mention of a kid named Archie. Apparently he was Abigail's little brother. Their dad wasn't really into talking about them much. The journal's mostly stuff about his business. But in the back there was a letter he'd received from someone named Francis Driscoll. I think he must have been a friend or something. Anyway, in this letter, Francis agrees that Archie's behavior is concerning."

"Huh." Sam frowned, leaning forward. He accepted the letter when Dean handed it to him. "What behavior?"

"Dunno. Abigail's dad, Stirling, must have written to this Francis for advice," Dean continued as Sam browsed the letter. "Francis doesn't go into any detail about what the behavior was, but he recommended caution."

"There are doctors in the city who are able to diagnose such maladies," Sam read aloud, "I admit great fear for the child."

"Whatever Archie was up to, freaked this guy out."

"Possession?" Sam glanced up.

"Who knows. Maybe he was just a psycho brat."

Sam nodded slowly, then looked back at the letter. "Please take caution with the child. If he manifests further disturbing behavior, do not hesitate to seek confinement for him. I can recommend an excellent physician at the sanitorium who could assess the lad."

"This letter was dated about a month before Abigail's disappearance," Dean said, ignoring the way the table seemed to be breathing under his hands. "I couldn't find anything else, though."

"So Stirling had two kids. Abigail and Archie. Archie was doing something that scared his dad enough to consult with someone about his behavior." Sam frowned, staring down at the letter. "A month after this letter, Abigail was murdered. A knife through her heart. Her dad's brother, Hugo, insisted he hadn't murdered her but was executed."

"Right. Not long after that, Stirling bites it from heartbreak."

"But what happened to Archie?"

"Exactly." Dean nodded. "What happened to the kid? He wasn't mentioned in the article about Hugo's trial and Stirling's death only merited a tiny blurb in the paper."

Sam might have been beyond exhausted, but his brain seemed to be sharp as ever. He asked, "Do you think Hugo killed Abigail?"

"Nope." Dean couldn't help but smile. Great minds think alike. "I think either he had no idea who had done it and was telling the truth when he said he'd just found the knife and dress, or he covered for his monster nephew. I mean, it's just a guess."

"It might fit, though," Sam said, frowning as he stared at the letter. "So Stirling's two kids are haunting his house. Abigail hadn't bothered anyone until we tried to go upstairs."

"Archie's tied to the attic somehow?"

"It's a possibility," Sam admitted. "It makes the most sense. Maybe they were both murdered up there."

"You think Archie was murdered, too?"

"I don't know. He might have been murdered or just accidentally eaten the mushrooms. Either way, he's up there in the attic and Abigail is somehow keeping him there and away from all visitors until we came by. We went upstairs and she tried to stop us. She could have been trying to protect us."

Dean snorted. "By throwing you down the stairs?"

"She's a ghost. They're not usually very sophisticated."

"I don't get how this has anything to do with the way I'm losing my mind or how it's related to mushrooms." Dean rubbed his arm. The twitching wasn't increasing and he could almost ignore it, but he didn't feel right. At all.

"I know I said it before, but could it be a variation of ghost sickness?"

"I guess." Dean shrugged, trying to put the pieces together. "Archie died of mushroom poisoning and now he's making me experience what he did?"

"It's about the only explanation that makes sense," Sam said, looking him up and down like he was some kind of weird science project.

"Sense is not the word I would choose," Dean grumbled, flexing his fingers. "If it is ghost sickness, I'm going to need a vaccine or something because I do not want to be infected again."

Sam smiled briefly, then frowned, staring at Dean's hand. He asked, "Remember that toy bayonet?"

"Yeah. The unusually sharp one?" Dean rubbed the finger he'd inadvertently sliced on the toy.

"It's your left hand." Sam leaned forward, grabbing Dean's hand and staring at the superficial slice where the toy had cut him. "Dean, it's your left hand."

"I'm aware. I'm may be seeing things, but I did pass kindergarten."

"No, I mean, you cut a finger on your left hand and that's the arm that's twitching. It's where the initial symptoms started, isn't it?"

"Yeah."

"And you were bleeding from the cut, right? Maybe it's from the blood exposure."

"You think I got infected somehow from getting cut by that toy." Dean nodded, beginning to understand. "A toy that most likely belonged to an evil little munchkin?"

"Exactly."

Rubbing his left hand, Dean said, "There was no mention of Stirling having a son in the articles about Hugo's murder trial. All the death records from this town were destroyed in the 1920s so there's no way to go back and look for info on Archie's death."

"But he was a kid when you saw him," Sam jumped in. "We can assume he died around the same time as the rest of his family."

"Right. What we don't know is if Archie or his father died first. Or if Archie is buried with the family." Dean flourished one of the printouts from the library. "The rumor about Abigail being hidden in the floorboards? It was just a rumor. Abigail is buried next to her mother and father in the old county cemetery."

"So maybe Archie is buried there too?"

"Could be. Worth a look. We might as well light Abigail up while we're there."

"Seems reasonable. Ok, so she's not haunting the house because she's buried in the floorboards." Sam sat back in his chair with a sigh. "Abigail's haunting the house to protect visitors from her psycho little brother. Either she's tied to something in the house, or she's just tied to him."

"I say we just go light up Abby's bones, and Archie's, if he's there. Go back and torch the entire place if Archie's not buried with the family," Dean said, crossing his arms over his chest. "Burn 'em both out. End of story."

"Unless it's not, Dean."

Dean pressed his fists to his eyes and said, "Why do you have to throw a wrench into everything? What are you talking about?"

"If he's not at the cemetery, we still have to figure what happened to Archie's body. If he's not in the house, burning it down isn't going to do any good. And are you sure we should burn Abigail's bones? She's been protecting visitors from Archie for like years."

"She threw you down the stairs." Dean knew he was yelling but didn't care. Maybe Sam had only wound up with a headache and a few bumps and bruises, but he'd nearly had a heart attack watching him fall. "Abigail can go to the great beyond now because we're gonna waste her bratty brother."

Sam sighed like he was losing patience which wasn't very reasonable since he wasn't the who currently had a bladder that had shrunk to the size of a ketchup packet. Dean ignored the dirty look the lamp was giving him and almost knocked the chair over backwards as he made a mad dash for the bathroom. This was getting really, really annoying.

To say nothing of embarrassing.

He almost thought he could hear Sam's muffled laughter as he slammed the bathroom door.

________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

to be continued...


	3. Chapter Three

"I think this is a terrible idea."

"Which part you got a problem with in particular?"

"How about every part," Sam muttered, watching his brother shovel dirt out of Abigail's grave. They'd found the family plot, but there had been no gravestone for Archie which meant they still had work ahead of them.

Dean snorted, straightening and wiping the back of his hand across his face. He motioned around with the shovel, flinging dirt everywhere. "The place is deserted. No one has been here in at least twenty years."

"It's the middle of the day."

"Yes. And we're in the middle of a cemetery that has not been visited in at least twenty years."

Sam kicked a pile of dirt back into the dug up grave.

"Dude!" Dean glared at him, ducking down to dig again. "Stop being a bitch. I'm out here digging a hole while hallucinating and twitching. Least you can do is be a non-judgmental sentry."

"I'm not judging. I'm worrying."

"You do that well."

This time Sam was the one glaring. And then he was on alert because something had changed in Dean's demeanor. "What's wrong?"

"Uh." Dean's expression shifted and his face went bright red. "Gotta go."

"Oh. Need a hand out?"

"Yes, unless you want me to -"

"Do not finish that sentence," Sam said, leaning down and yanking his brother out of the grave.

"Don't die." Dean called over his shoulder as he ran for the treeline.

Sam watched his brother's awkward run and, despite the circumstances, found himself laughing.

And then he found himself flying and damn it what was with this ghost anyway? He had just enough time to wonder what she had against him before he landed heavily on the ground next to the last resting place of Hurston Hughes, the fourth.

He saw stars and then a pale face.

Pain hadn't even begun to register before an icy hand touched his right cheek. Blinking hard, Sam sucked in a breath to replace the one that had been knocked out of him. Staring up at the spirit, he saw fear mingled with determination in the cold, dead blue eyes.

"Leave. Please." Abigail's voice was small and her hand was shaking against his cheek. She was terrified. "He will kill you."

"We can...help," Sam finally choked out. He shifted slightly, intending to get up, but a flash of pain in his right arm discouraged further movement.

She shook her head.

A shotgun blast ended their brief conversation. Sam cringed, slamming his eyes closed as rocksalt danced down onto his face. The movement jarred his right arm and he gasped.

"Sam!" Dean's voice was loud and close.

This time a warm hand touched his cheek and Sam forced his eyes open again.

"Are you alright?" Dean asked, looking him up and down. "What the hell happened?"

Coughing out a pained breath, Sam said, "She's afraid."

"That is not an answer. Why aren't you moving? Where are you hurt?"

Head spinning a little with the recent thump and Dean's rushed litany of questions, Sam said, "She's scared and was trying to defend herself."

"And what? She threw you? Again." Dean shook his head. "Your boyish charms aren't working on this chick."

"Apparently not." Sam grimaced. Now that they were talking, the pain was beginning to become more of a pressing concern.

"Where are you hurt?" Dean repeated, one hand resting on Sam's arm - thankfully his uninjured arm.

"Uh." Sam sucked in a steadying breath and lifted his left hand to motion to his throbbing right arm.

Dean's face paled as he asked, "How bad we talking?"

"I don't know."

He really didn't. It hurt. Like hell. How serious the injury was, he didn't know. He was a little afraid to even try moving. At all.

"You got feeling in your fingers?"

Sam nodded, then stopped when even that small motion drilled pain through his shoulder down to his fingertips.

"Shoulder or elbow?"

"Not sure."

"Dislocated?"

"I don't think so." Sam gritted his teeth. The pain was a little too overwhelming for him to be able to tell if any joints were out of place.

Dean's hand hesitated, holding back from touching him. He looked worried to his core and a little sick, too. Sam wished he'd landed on his other arm. It would have brought up fewer painful memories.

Who winged you?

Does it matter?

Not really.

Sam shivered at the memory of the cold, callous, uncaring tone of his brother's voice.

"You're not going into shock on me, are you?" Dean was snapping his fingers an inch from Sam's face.

"No," Sam's voice was hoarse. He cleared his throat and smiled. "Just a little...shocked."

Dean snorted a laugh. He ran a hand down his face and said, "This was supposed to be an easy case."

"Yeah."

"You think you can get up?"

Sam nodded slowly. "With help."

"You got it." Dean leaned down and gently - very gently - put his hand behind Sam's good shoulder. Sliding it under his back, Dean grabbed Sam's left hand and together they pulled him upright.

He was a little dizzy and closed his eyes for a second or two.

"Sam?"

"Yeah. I'm here," he mumbled, forcing his eyes open.

"Good grief, Sammy, I'm gonna have a heart attack right here in a damned cemetery."

"Least I won't have to take you very far. Push you right into the hole with Abigail." Sam grinned. "I'll say something nice at the service."

Dean laughed, but quickly grew dead serious. "Sam. Hospital."

"No."

"Yes."

"Dean," Sam said, starting to struggle out of his brother's grasp.

"Do not argue with me," Dean interrupted. "Do not. You screwed up this elbow bad not long ago."

"Not that bad."

"Surgery bad, Sam. We're going to check it out. X-ray or whatever."

Sam wanted to continue arguing, but he couldn't mostly because his breath caught in his throat when he experimentally shifted his arm. It hurt but nothing gave way. Nothing felt dislocated, either.

Dean shook his head and asked, "Well?"

"Not out of place."

"Good."

"No need for an x-ray."

"Don't push me right now." Dean shifted and waited till Sam was ready, then helped him to his feet.

Sam wavered a bit, but didn't fall over. "Dean-"

"We're getting you checked out," Dean said, holding up a hand to stop whatever Sam had been about to say. "Look, right now I don't trust myself not to miss something. I've been seeing teeth on the tv set for crying out loud!"

Sam smiled.

"Teeth, Sam. So excuse me if I want a second opinion. You just had surgery-"

"It's been months."

"Yes. Months. Not years." Dean held his gaze. "We're not taking chances with this, ok?"

His voice was soft, but Sam could hear the tension and anxiety in his tone. Whether or not he needed to get checked out, it was obvious that Dean needed him to get checked out. Either way, Sam was too tired to fight at this point. So he nodded and Dean relaxed.

"Good. Let's go," Dean said, tugging on his left arm.

"Not yet." Sam glanced at the dug up grave and said, "We can't leave yet."

Dean followed his gaze, then said, "Just go to the the car. I'll deal with your girlfriend."

"I think we need to talk to her."

"Crap." Dean was looking to their right. "Gonna have the chance."

Sam followed his brother's gaze as Dean took a step away.

Abigail was standing a few yards from them; the grotesque butcher's knife still protruding from her bloody chest. Despite her skin being translucent and sallow, she was young and pretty and absolutely terrified.

Dean was leaning down for the shotgun.

"Abigail," Sam called out before Dean or the ghost could react. "We want to help you. We can help you."

"No one can help me."

"We actually can sweetheart." Dean hefted the shotgun. "But you gotta let us."

"How...who-"

"We're just a couple guys who know how to take care of things like your bratty brother."

"Archie?" The spirit's eyes widened.

"We know about him." Sam nodded.

Abigail looked down at her chest. Delicate, fingers traced over the edge of the blade.

Frowning, Sam said, "Archie was the one who killed you, wasn't he?"

Abigail nodded and whispered, "He is a monster."

Dean was shifting; twitchy but not firing. Yet. Sam held his breath. Dean was just waiting for her to make the wrong move. Just waiting for a reason to shoot her. He hadn't yet, though, which meant they had a brief opportunity to reach her. To learn something more about what had happened and figure out how to get rid of her brother.

"How did Archie die?" Sam asked, taking advantage of the moment. "We couldn't find any mention of him or his death."

"My father poisoned him."

"Poisoned him?" Sam exchanged a glance with his brother.

"Yes."

"How?"

Abigail frowned. "I don't understand. Why does that matter?"

"Just answer the question," Dean said sharply.

"Please," Sam added, shooting his brother a glare.

"Father served him poisonous mushrooms."

"Why?"

"Father...he saw me...like this."

"He saw you as a ghost?"

"Yes." Tears welled up in her eyes. "I didn't mean for Father to see me. I just was trying to keep him safe. From Archie. I was afraid Archie would kill him."

"Did you tell your father what Archie had done?" Sam asked.

Abigail shook her head. "Father had already been suspicious. We'd all been afraid of Archie for many years. When he saw me in the playroom, Father realized what had happened and decided he had to stop Archie before he hurt anyone else."

"So Archie killed you in the attic?" Sam asked. "That's why your father saw you there?"

"Yes. Uncle Hugo found me...my body. He knew my death would destroy my father and thought it would be kinder if my father just thought I had disappeared so he took my body out to the woods to bury."

Dean snorted and said softly, "That was stupid."

"Shut up." Sam elbowed him, then said to Abigail, "Hugo was arrested for your murder."

"Yes. He was arrested although he told them he'd just found my body and the knife by the creek. My father wanted to believe in his innocence, but he knew Uncle Hugo was lying. He just didn't realize what he was lying about. He never could get Uncle Hugo to admit what had happened."

"Why did Archie kill you?" Sam asked, curiosity getting the better of him.

"He liked to see things bleed," Abigail whispered, staring down at the butcher's knife.

Dean cursed under his breath. He shook his head, then asked, "Where is your brother buried?"

"He wasn't."

"Wasn't buried?" Dean clarified.

A tear ran down her cheek and she flickered out of focus for a moment before saying, "Father burned him in the field."

"Great," Dean muttered. "No body."

"But that means he could be tied to the house," Sam whispered. "Maybe you're right and all we have to do is burn it down."

Dean brightened a little at that, then asked, "Abigail, you've been keeping people out of the attic for all these years. Is Archie trapped up there?"

"He died up there, too." She nodded. "I've been able to keep him there, but he's getting stronger."

"Oh he's definitely tied to something in the house." Dean shifted the shotgun."The entire attic was filled with his presence."

"He's probably poisoned everything in there-"

"Including his damned toys." Dean lifted his twitching arm. "So it is a form of ghost sickness. I got infected when I cut my finger on that tin soldier."

"I don't know." Sam shrugged, then put his left hand to his throbbing shoulder. "It doesn't exactly fit with what we know, but maybe it is a variation of ghost sickness. The symptoms are consistent with mushroom poisoning-"

"So it's not ghost sickness?"

"Dean, I don't know!" He was a little too tired and in a little too much pain to think clearly, let alone sort through all the variables and discrepancies of his brother's condition.

"Sorry," Dean said, shaking his head.

"Archie's obviously a violent spirit," Sam said, his brain running through a thousand scenarios. "He may just be powerful enough to be manifesting his anger and hatred this way. I don't know."

"Well, however he's doing it, at least we know why I felt better in town. Closer I get to the Everett house, the worse the symptoms are. Bottom line? We need to roast that ghost."

"Abigail," Sam said, taking a step forward. "We can stop Archie. And we can help you. Release you from this life."

Hope sprang into tired eyes.

"You've protected a lot of people." Dean lowered the shotgun and said, "You've helped them. Let us help you."

"What do you need to do?"

Sam cleared his throat and tried to word it gently. "We have to destroy your bones. That will set you free."

"Will it hurt?"

"It might," Dean answered honestly, but gentled the answer with a smile. "But it's not going to hurt as much as what you've been going through for the last ninety years."

Abigail looked down at the blade in her chest again, then whispered, "Promise me Archie won't hurt anyone else."

"He won't."

"Thank you."

Dean nodded as Abigail faded away. Turning, he said, "You stay here. I'll finish her. Then we're going to the hospital."

He walked away before Sam could argue.

At this point, Sam wasn't sure he would have argued anyway.

________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

Dean grumbled the entire time he salted Abigail's bones.

He was tired, had a headache, and really needed to head for the treeline again. He was disappointed with how complicated this stupid case had become and he was worried about the damage Abigail had inflicted upon his brother. All in all? It had been a crappy twelve hours.

"That's all?" He shook his head, checking the time.

Twelve hours since they'd arrived at the Everett house.

He chucked the last of the salt onto the bones, said a quiet apology to Abigail, then tossed in a lit book of matches. Flames rose and he saw the spirit's form flicker out of existence.

One down, one to go.

Glancing over his shoulder, he was a little surprised to find Sam still standing where he'd left him. He was steady on his feet, but looked like he'd been run over by a train. Face chalky, he was cradling his right arm with his left, and staring blankly at the flames.

Dean hadn't gotten an argument when he'd told his brother he would finish the salt and burn. He didn't like arguing with his brother, but in this case it would have made him feel better. If Sam was arguing, he was alright. If he wasn't...well, it was definitely time to wrap things up and find a hospital.

"Sam," he called out. "Go back to the car."

"What? No. I'm...I'll wait for you." Sam blinked a few times like he'd been half asleep. Which he probably had been.

"Just go sit down, will you? I don't need to have to re-bury Abigail here, haul all the gear and you back to the car. Stop being stubborn."

Sam glared at him, turned and - surprisingly - started walking away.

Dean was pretty sure he'd heard a muttered look who's talking as Sam headed for the car, but he chose to ignore it. Arguing that point would be idiotic because he was stubborn and who had Sam learned how to be stubborn from in the first place?

"Me," he mumbled grumpily to the pile of dirt. "My head hurts."

As if the dirt cared.

Sighing, he grabbed the shovel and started pitching dirt back into the grave. Halfway expecting to be accosted by a wicked little kid in knickers, he managed to finish the job without incident. Even though he wasn't really concerned about anyone wondering why the grave had been disturbed, he took an extra minute to make sure it looked as neat as possible. Abigail deserved that much. She deserved a whole lot more, actually, and wasting her brother would hopefully count for something.

By the time he'd packed up and reached the car, he was thinking a cup of coffee or three would be a very important next step. Hospital coffee sucked, but that's where he was going to have to get his cup. He might have been persuaded to renegotiate, but Sam didn't hide his expression of misery fast enough.

Hospital it was.

He got behind the wheel and completely ignored everything his brother said about how fine he felt and how his arm wasn't hurting that bad and nothing was broken and yadda yadda yadda. Sam tried to keep up the illusion for about a mile, then gave up and started moaning and groaning and bitching about every little pothole. In a weird way it made Dean feel better.

By the time they got to the hospital, Sam was half asleep and limp as a noodle. Dean hoped Sam was going to be able to drag himself into the hospital because he needed to find a bathroom.

Right. Freaking. Now.

Gritting his teeth he parked the car and wondered when is this stuff going to wear off?

Not anytime soon, was the all too obvious answer. He shoved his door open and was all the way around the car before Sam had even gotten his eyes all the way open.

"Come on," Dean said, fighting the urge to grab his brother's arm and haul him bodily into the building.

Sam didn't say anything, but gingerly got out of the car, still cradling his arm. Mercifully, he wasn't having issues with walking; even if he wasn't entirely walking in a straight line. Dean beat him to the door and held it open for him.

"Go register," he said, as soon as Sam was through the door. "I'll come find you."

Sam didn't even have the chance to reply before Dean was rushing for the restroom.

This is getting so old.

When he returned to the waiting room, he found Sam laboriously trying to fill out a stack of forms with his left hand. Admittedly, after the recent injury, he'd gotten pretty good at writing left handed, but he was slow as molasses and his crappy handwriting was beyond illegible.

"Give me that." Dean yanked the clipboard away from him.

"Dean-"

"What the hell, Sam?" He looked up from the form. A form that had his name on it.

"You need to get checked out, too."

"They're gonna have a special treatment for ghost sickness?" Dean hissed, shaking his head.

"Regardless of the cause, you're experiencing very real physical symptoms," Sam said, ever trying to be the voice of reason. "I'd just feel better if I knew you were alright ok?"

Dean bit back an angry reply because Sam didn't look like he could handle it at the moment. He also didn't deserve it.

"Please. Just let them check," Sam said softly, then leaned his head back against the wall and closed his eyes.

"Did you already fill out your own form?" Dean asked, looking over the form Sam had nearly completed.

"Hadn't gotten to it yet."

Rolling his eyes, Dean finished filling out his form, then filled out one for his brother. After he turned them in, he settled into an uncomfortable chair for what was probably going to be a long wait, considering how busy the waiting room was. He was antsy and wanted to be burning a house down, but kept his mouth shut and hoped Sam was catching at least a few minutes of sleep.

As their bad luck would have it, they both got called back at the same time.

Separating, Dean said, "Don't lie to the doctor or so help me, Sam, I will kick your ass."

"Will that be before or after your next bathroom break?" Sam sent him an innocent smile, then turned and walked away.

There was nothing Dean could do except keep his mouth shut and follow the nurse into an exam room.

An hour later he went in search of his brother.

Having been poked and prodded and diagnosed with low blood pressure and a mild electrolyte imbalance thanks to dehydration, he was re-hydrated, irritated, and hungry. He expected to find his brother more than ready for a jailbreak. Instead, he found him sound asleep.

Smiling despite the concern, he quietly took a seat next to the bed.

His right arm in a simple sling, a pillow strategically placed to support the injured limb, Sam was breathing easily and was so relaxed Dean knew it had to be drug induced. Dean had only been sitting there for a few minutes before a nurse tapped on the door and slipped inside.

"Are you Dean?" she asked quietly.

"Yeah."

"Sam said you'd show up at some point." She smiled.

"And here I am." Dean was too tired for this, but gave her his best smile. "You gonna pull all that privacy stuff on me, or can you tell me how he's doing?"

"He gave us permission to talk to you," the nurse continued. "Said we might as well answer your questions or he'd never hear the end of it."

She sounded amused and this time Dean's smile was a little more genuine. He asked, "So what's the verdict on his arm?"

"No fractures or dislocations noted on the x-ray," the nurse said. "I understand he recently had a bad injury to his elbow?"

Dean nodded, somewhat amazed Sam had been that forthcoming with details.

"Dr. Pyre said he saw no acute injury today. Bruised and sore, of course. He'll need to be cautious with it, but ice and anti inflammatories will help."

"Good. What'd you dope him up with? Must've been something strong or he would've been awake and trying to leave by now."

"Just Toradol."

Dean raised an eyebrow. "That's it? He doesn't sleep through conversations unless he's snowed on morphine or something strong."

She smiled again and said, "He fell asleep in the middle of a sentence thirty seconds after I gave him the medication. Toradol doesn't work that fast. I think he was just tired."

You have no idea, Dean shook his head. Clearing his throat, he asked, "You gonna get us outta here soon or can he sleep a little longer?"

"It honestly may be a little while before we can get him discharged. We've gotten a little busy."

"No problem." Dean had heard the trauma call over the loudspeaker earlier and seen the rush as he'd walked down the hallway. "We're not in any hurry."

She closed the door as she left and Dean took a deep breath.

"This was supposed to be easy," he whispered to himself.

Because there was literally nothing better to do, he leaned back in the chair, plopped his boots on the edge of the bed and closed his eyes.

He couldn't fall asleep - the whole twitching thing was kind of distracting - but the peaceful quiet was helping calm his rattled nerves. Knowing Sam hadn't badly re-injured his arm was also a relief. All that stood between them and the candy and horror movie marathon was ganking one evil little ghost.

Easy peasy.

Snorting, he shook his head and straightened, stretching a kink out of his neck. He glanced at the clock. Almost four. He'd zoned out for nearly an hour. Sam was shifting fitfully on the bed, not quite awake, but close.

"Sam," Dean called out, voice low.

Frowning, Sam tilted his head toward the sound of Dean's voice.

"Nap time's over. Gotta gank a ghost."

Sam opened his eyes and even managed to get them pointed in Dean's direction. For a split second. He took a slow breath, then seemed to fall straight back to sleep. Amused, but feeling the pressure of needing to finish the case, Dean smacked the edge of the mattress a few times. It worked wonders.

"What the hell, Dean?"

"Ah. Now you're awake." Dean smiled at the irritated glare he received.

Still mostly out of it, but obviously annoyed, Sam rubbed his eyes and mumbled, "What'd they give me?"

"An anti inflammatory. Sheer exhaustion's what put you under, dude."

"Hate you." Sam's left hand wandered to his right arm, fingers brushing the sling. "Hate feelin' like this."

"What? Tired? Well, hate to break it to you, but you are an unfortunate member of the human race and therefore require sleep." Dean sat back, arms folded across his chest. "And why do you hate me? I didn't do this."

"Made me come here," Sam muttered, still fighting to keep his eyes open. "Was fine till now."

Dean smiled, standing up and nudging the edge of the bed with his knee. "You want me to leave you here? I can let you sleep. I'll just go burn down a house on my own, no big deal."

"What, no, wait...what?" Sam blinked at him, brain processing three times slower than normal. "No. No, not without me."

"Alright, alright. Just stay put for a minute, will you?" Dean shoved his floundering brother back against the pillow. "I'll go find a nurse and get you checked outta here. Don't fall asleep while I'm gone."

Fifteen minutes later, Sam was free to go with a handful of discharge instructions he was doubtless going to completely ignore. Not that Dean could call him out on it; he'd already thrown his own instructions in the trash.

"What'd they say about you?" Sam asked once he was sitting up.

"Remarkably good looking, dashing, debonair-"

"Dean."

"And dehydrated."

"Huh." Sam had the nerve to snicker. "It's no wonder with the way you've been-"

"Mushroom poisoning is nothing to be taken lightly," Dean interrupted, tossing Sam his jacket. Sam missed. Of course. Rolling his eyes, Dean grabbed the jacket off the edge of the bed and handed it to his brother. "I'm fine. Not even seeing things now."

Sam narrowed his eyes. "Is that the truth?"

"Yes. Inanimate objects are no longer coming to life."

"Good."

"Coffee?" Dean asked when Sam yawned.

"Oh yes."

Sam stood up, looking so tired Dean debated putting the house-burning off until tomorrow. Wasn't like Archie was going anywhere.

"Coffee, then we end him," Sam said firmly. Any and all amusement was gone from his expression now. "We're torching that place and burning it to the ground."

"Isn't that the same thing?" Dean followed him out of the room.

"No."

"No?" Dean's eyebrows rose. "How is it different?"

"It's different...because."

"Eloquent."

"Shut up."

"Cranky." Dean shook his head. "I should've just let you sleep."

________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

Sam wanted to snap back at his brother, but the truth was he was too tired. He kept his mouth shut as they made their way out to the Impala. Dean was rambling on and on about something. It was good to hear him sounding upbeat and back to his normal self even if right now he was a little too upbeat.

Despite the medication, Sam's arm ached and the nap had done nothing but make his chronic lack of sleep even more apparent. Hungover and unsteady, burning down a haunted house was the last thing he felt like doing. He wasn't about to let Dean go off on his own, though. Maybe he was getting over the poisoning, but he wasn't at one hundred percent, either.

Glancing at his brother as he got behind the wheel, he could all too easily see the lines of stress around his brother's eyes. The dark circles under them. The evidence of his illness. He needed to get some quality sleep, too.

Sighing, Sam settled back in the seat, trying to find a comfortable position.

"You alright?" Dean asked, starting the car.

"Great."

"You look it."

"Whatever. You look like crap yourself." Sam stared out the window at the drizzling rain. Is it ever going to stop? "We got everything we need to burn that place down?"

"Think so."

"Ok."

They were silent until after they'd gotten their coffee.

"That is a ridiculous price for a cup of coffee," Dean griped, rolling up his window. "I can't believe I just forked over ten bucks for two cups of coffee."

"We could have gone to McDonald's." Sam took a cautious sip.

"You hate their coffee. They don't make it elaborate enough for your snobby taste buds."

Sam hid his smile with another sip. He didn't hate McDonald's coffee and they both knew it. He didn't really care if his coffee was flavored and expensive or black and cheap. It was rare for either of them to find a cup of coffee they couldn't drink. In their lifestyle, coffee was nothing more than fuel; plain and simple.

Of course, now and then he wasn't opposed to indulging in the ridiculousness that was pumpkin spice.

"I don't know how anyone could come up with putting pumpkin into coffee," Dean's griping continued. "It's meant for pie, Sam. Not meant to be in coffee."

Never mind that he was drinking a pumpkin spice latte, too.

"It's just weird. Keep pumpkin as a pie. Can't understand this fad."

Never mind that he somehow always found a way to get a cup as soon as the season started.

"You could have just gotten a black coffee," Sam suggested. "Would've been cheaper."

Dean took a hasty sip of his coffee and said, "I was already forking over a fortune for yours. Might as well just get one of my own. It's Halloween. Guess it's sort of festive."

Sam laughed. "Festive?"

"Yeah. Festive. Don't you feel festive?"

"No. Actually I feel like I was tossed by a ghost. Twice. Thanks for the coffee, though."

"You're welcome." Dean turned the car onto the muddy dirt road that would lead them back to the Everett house. "And come on, it's a little festive. Haunted house. Grumpy ghosts. Pumpkin spice latte. We wrap this up and there'll be time for you to go trick-or-treating."

"Ha ha. I think we've had enough tricks for one day."

"Enough tricks, yes." Dean grinned. "Might you still be interested in some treats?"

"If an ice pack and some ibuprofen is included in your definition of treats, then sure."

Dean nodded, obviously very satisfied with himself. "Ice pack, ibuprofen, and a bag full of candy. Order a pizza. Tune into the all night horror marathon. I got the evening all planned out."

"Apparently." Sam raised an eyebrow. "Pretty sure the shelves are going to be empty of most of the good candy by now."

"Oh ye of little faith. I am not an amateur. I came prepared. Got a stash in the trunk."

"You're taking this Halloween thing very serious considering almost every single day of our lives is Halloween."

Dean shrugged and took a sip of his coffee. He was acting like it was no big deal, but it was. He had truly intended for this to be a fun hunt. It was the first Sam had heard of the movie marathon and candy stash, but now that he did, he was actually looking forward to it.

Of course, nothing could ever go smoothly.

The car swerved sharply and he was thrown against the door.

Yep. There went smooth.

Gritting his teeth, he straightened in his seat and sent a glare toward his brother. The pain in his arm became a secondary concern.

"Dean, what's wrong?"

"I uh…" Dean held out his coffee cup.

Sam switched his own cup to his right hand, then took his brother's cup as he repeated, "What's wrong?"

The car slowed and Dean pulled over to the side of the road. He put the car into park, then leaned forward to rest his head on the steering wheel and said, "Think you better drive."

"What's going on?" Sam asked, fear going from a low simmer to a rolling boil. He set the coffee cups on the dash and turned in his seat to look at his brother more closely. "Dean, talk to me."

"It's bad again."

"The symptoms? You -"

"I'm seeing things again. Hearing things. And I gotta-" He broke off and shoved the door open.

Sam sighed, watching his brother stumble behind the cover of some bushes. Sliding across the seat, he settled himself behind the wheel and waited, regretting his stupidity. He should never have let Dean drive. Should have anticipated Dean would go downhill again. All he could hope now was that Dean would be able to hold it together long enough for them to finish the job.

"You alright?" He asked when his brother got settled in the passenger seat.

"The bush was gettin' handsy." Dean shook his head, splattering rain everywhere. He motioned downward and said, "Barely got outta there with my-"

"You're fine." Sam cut him off before Dean could finish his sentence. "Any new symptoms?"

"No. Same old. You're lookin' like that melted clock in that freaky painting."

"The Persistence of Memory?" Sam asked, struggling to turn the key.

"I don't know the name of it," Dean whined, leaning forward and batting Sam's hand away. Dean started the car, then sat back, hand over his eyes. "I can't look at you. Your face is melting."

"Just keep your eyes closed. It's fine. We're gonna take Archie out and then you're gonna feel better."

"I hope so." Dean slouched in his seat, both hands pressed to his face. "Drive faster, Sammy."

Twenty minutes (and two more pit-stops) later he was standing next to his brother, holding a can of gasoline as they stared at the Everett house.

"We should just start the fire from out here," Sam said, hoping not to have to go back inside.

"It's raining too hard."

Dean was shifting from one foot to the next. His nervousness was making Sam nervous and one of them really needed to be holding it together right now.

"We're going to have to at least get the interior on fire or it's not going to work." Dean hefted the blow torch in his left hand. He held the shotgun in his right. "We know what to expect now and, besides, Archie's stuck in the attic. We should be fine."

"Yeah, because no angry spirit has ever left their cozy nook," Sam said, looking up at the foreboding house. It seemed darker, more dilapidated than it had last night.

"Look, Mr. Negativity, it's pouring rain and we're here to start a house on fire." Dean ducked as if something had just been thrown at him, then shivered. His tone was strained as he said, "Compromises are going to be made."

Yeah. Compromises like me letting you come on this job while you're sweating like a pig, obviously seeing things, and as green as the grass.

"I don't like it." Sam shook his head, blinking against the rain.

He didn't like the case, didn't like the rain, didn't like that he was down an arm and that his hallucinating brother had both a blow torch and a shotgun in his hands.

"I don't like it either."

"We could come back tomorrow."

Dean started walking to the porch.

"Dean."

"Nothing's going to change if we come back tomorrow and I'd rather be not crazy sooner rather than later."

"It might not be raining tomorrow," Sam said, catching up to his brother. "We could get a hotel on the other side of town; get a good night's sleep and -"

"Since when have either of us had one of those?" Dean paused midway up the porch steps. He wavered, eyes drifting as he watched whatever wasn't there. Swallowing hard, he went a little greener, but his voice was even when he said, "We've got this. Ok? One arm down or not, we've got this. Hallucinating or not, we've got this."

Sam took a long, deep breath, then nodded.

"Ok?" Dean wasn't just asking to be polite. He was actually waiting for Sam's honest opinion.

"Ok. Let's get this done."

Dean grinned and tucked the blow torch into the bag over his shoulder. Shotgun at the ready, he lead the way into the house.

"Don't touch anything this time," Sam whispered, rushing to keep as close to his brother as he could.

"Funny."

They doused the ground floor with gasoline, then made it to the first floor landing without incident. Sticking together, they systematically went through the rooms. Sam pouring gasoline and Dean keeping watch. Having made a complete circuit, they stood at the base of the attic stairs.

"Throw the can upstairs," Dean said softly, shotgun still raised.

Sam nodded and did as instructed. The can thumped against the attic floor just outside of their sight. A split second later and Archie appeared in the doorway at the top of the stairs. His eyes were dark and furious, his arms bloody and scratched just like Dean had said.

They both flinched back, but Dean didn't waste another second and the blast of the shotgun echoed through the upstairs.

"Light it," Dean instructed, not taking his eyes - or the shotgun sight - off the doorway at the top of the stairs.

Sam yanked the blow torch out of the bag on Dean's shoulder and lit the gasoline. They stepped back as one as the flames rushed up the stairs. It took another second before the fire had fanned out to their right and left, tracing the trail of gasoline to both ends of the house.

Above the sound of the flames, Sam heard a scream.

Looking up again, he saw Archie standing there, hatred in his eyes, his scratched-raw arms reaching out for them. He started down the stairs at an unsteady run, his face white with fury.

He disappeared in another blast of rocksalt.

"Come on." Dean grabbed Sam's good arm and pulled him toward the stairs as the fire spread.

They rushed down the stairs, the violent spirit's blood curdling screams chasing them all the way. Sam could almost feel cold, dead hands on his back again, but nothing touched him except his brother. As soon as they hit the ground floor, Sam lit the trail of gasoline that ran around the rest of the house.

Dean hustled him toward the door as they heard the moan of hundred year old timber losing the battle against the flames. Over the sound of the creaking and breaking wood, Archie's scream turned to a wail of pure anger. A pulse of power threw them both forward and they sprawled across the unforgiving hardwood floor. Sam threw himself to his left to keep from landing on his right arm.

Groaning, Dean shifted until he was facing Sam, then asked, "You ok?"

Sam nodded. More bruises, but nothing more serious. He followed Dean's gaze and saw Archie standing midway down the flaming stairs. He was illuminated against the horrific backdrop and Sam might have felt sorry for him if not for the fact the kid's face was twisted into a feral snarl, hatred standing out even brighter than the flames.

A shout of distress from next to him tore Sam's attention from the terrifying tableau and sent his heart straight to his stomach.

"Dean?" he called, struggling to push himself upright with only one working arm.

"Sam?" Dean called out, flat on his back, staring up at Archie with wide eyes filled with terror. He was scrambling backwards, clumsy and uncoordinated.

"I'm right here." Sam grabbed for his brother's arm and shook him. "We need to get out of this house. Right now."

A glance upstairs revealed Archie was braving the flames and coming ever closer, his expression changing to a malevolent grin.

Dean looked completely out of it now, petrified and unmoving. Sam slapped him. Hard.

"What the hell?" Dean shouted, but it had been enough to snap him back to reality.

"We have to go. Now!"

They both ducked as a powerful crack sounded somewhere above them. Dean was pushing himself to his feet and grabbing his gear while Sam glanced back at Archie. He was standing on the lowest step. Much too close for comfort. Sam got to his feet and shoved his brother toward the door. As they walked, Archie let loose a horrific shriek of pure rage.

It reached a crescendo as they ran out the front door, then faded into nothingness as something in the house exploded.

Sam cringed automatically at the sound, but they were far enough away that nothing was hitting them except cold raindrops.

Neither of them bothered to look back at the house until they were safely in the car. Slamming their doors simultaneously, they glanced at each other, then at the burning house. Pouring rain or not, they'd lit a pretty impressive bonfire.

"Wow." Dean shook his head and whistled. "Should've brought marshmallows."

Sucking in a deep breath, Sam rolled his eyes.

"Hey, Sammy?"

"Yeah?" He glanced at his brother, absentmindedly rubbing his throbbing right arm. "You doing any better?"

"You still look funny."

"Still hallucinating?" Sam sat up a little straighter, frowning. He looked at the burning house and said, "That doesn't make sense. Burning whatever Archie was linked to should be helping. You should be cured, or at least feeling better-"

"Sam?"

"What?"

"You look funny. But it's just your normal look." Dean smiled and waved a hand. "You don't look like crappy a Impressionistic painting anymore."

"Expressionist," Sam corrected automatically, then glared at his brother. "You're a jerk."

"Yes, I am," Dean said, grinning and starting the car.

________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

Dean poured the last of the popcorn into his mouth, then chucked the box in the general direction of the trash can. He missed, of course, but considering he was throwing with his still sort of numb left arm, it wasn't too bad a shot. Thankfully, all the other symptoms had vanished as the Everett house had burned to the ground. Leaning down, he grabbed an ice cold bottle of Coke out of the cooler; a rainstorm of candy wrappers drifting to the carpet as he shifted on the bed.

The cap of the bottle went sailing to land somewhere not even close to the trash can. Oh well.

Glancing to his right, he wasn't surprised to find Sam's eyes closed. Hovering the bottle over his face, Dean grinned, watching cold drips of water smack his brother on the forehead. For a moment, there was no reaction and he figured it meant Sam had finally passed out on him. Then he frowned and clumsily started moving his arm. Probably intending to wipe his face off, he was experiencing difficulty because his right arm was still in the sling.

"S'it rainin'?" Sam mumbled, eyes closed and flinching every time another cold drop hit him on the face.

"Use your left hand," Dean coached, not sure why he was finding this so funny.

Sam followed his direction and wound up spilling the entire package of M&Ms all over the bed between them. He did find his face though, and smacked it awkwardly a few times, trying to fight off the rain.

"Close th' window."

"It's closed." Dean moved the bottle away and took a long drink.

"Got a leak."

Dean laughed, picking up M&Ms.

"Dean," Sam whined. "Fix th' leak."

"You're drunk."

Sam peeled his eyes open. They were crossed and glazed.

"So drunk." Dean frowned. He looked back in the cooler. No beer left. He pushed himself upright a little higher and counted bottles. "Oops."

"Dean."

"Yeah?"

"Think 'm drunk."

"You are. More drunk than I meant for you to get, actually." He watched his brother trying to sort out why his right arm wouldn't move. He was fighting against the sling and Dean said, "Stop it."

"Why'm I tied up?" Sam sounded a little panicked.

While it was amusing to watch him struggle against nothing more than a sling and being drunk, Dean quickly said, "You're not tied up. You're drunk."

"I said that." The fight went out of him and he lay there cross eyed and frowning up at the ceiling. "We still watching movies?"

"Well, I'm still watching movies."

Sam lifted his head off the pillow, staring blearily at the tv. "That a clown?"

"Yeah. It's It."

"Dean, I hate clowns." He flopped back down against the pillow, looking up with an accusing glare.

Smiling, Dean said, "I know. How 'bout you don't watch this movie?"

"Not a baby. I can watch it."

Never mind that the last time he'd said that, they'd tried to watch the movie only for him to abruptly realize he had some pressing "research" to do. Dean had teased him mercilessly but never suggested they try again. Phobias were great to poke fun at, but he drew the line at inflicting any more psychological damage on his brother. Personally, he liked the movie, but he'd find something else to watch.

Not that it was going to matter, he realized, watching Sam struggling to keep his eyes open. He was going to be asleep in a matter of seconds. Dean continued picking up the spilled M&Ms while he waited.

After watching the house burn to the ground, they'd grabbed a six pack of Coke for him and a six pack of beer for Sam along with a pizza and some popcorn. The bottle of Tequila had been for good measure. For the past six hours they'd been watching horror movies and devouring the stash of candy while Sam got steadily drunker. Dean was tempted to have a beer, but wasn't interested in tempting the Mark. Besides, one of them needed to be sober.

His goal of getting his brother to pass out drunk was working. He'd have a hangover from hell in the morning, but at least he'd sleep through the night. Dean shook his head. They needed to find a better solution than getting wasted.

"Just need to find a way to shut your stupid big brain down for awhile," Dean said softly, watching Sam's breathing even out as he drifted back toward sleep.

He sighed. Might as well pick up the trash then turn in for the night. He flipped the tv off, then pulled the covers up over his brother. He was about to get off the bed when Sam spoke.

"Dean?"

"Yeah?" He looked down as Sam awkwardly grabbed the front of his shirt with his left hand. "Hey, what's up?"

Sam forced his eyes open and maybe he was a little more lucid than Dean had been giving him credit for. He tightened his grip and said, "I'm gonna figure this out."

Like a punch to his chest, Sam's words hit him hard. He breathed out slowly and nodded. "I know you will."

"I'm not losing you again."

"Sam…" Dean sighed. This was the last thing he wanted to be talking about right now. Especially since he was honestly scared there was no solution to this problem. "Don't do this to yourself-"

"I'm not." Sam's grip tightened and he started dragging himself upright.

"Hey, ok. Fine. You're not." Dean easily pushed him back down. "But you're also not doing anything tonight."

"Dean-"

"Not tonight. Ok?" Dean smiled shaking himself free of his brother's grip. "Just get some sleep, will you?"

For a moment the room was silent. Even the rain had stopped tapping at the roof. Dean fought the urge to rub his hand over the Mark.

"Dean?"

"Yeah, Sammy?" Dean sighed.

"Don't die."

The statement was simple, the plea behind it anything but.

Heart in his throat, Dean nodded.

Sam held his gaze for a moment, then his eyes slid closed. Just like a switch had been flipped, he was out.

Dean scrubbed at his suddenly burning eyes. Shifting, he turned off the lamp. A gentle wind was whispering around the window and a sliver of moonlight through the torn curtain lit the room. Fisting his hands, he tried to ignore the whisper of the Mark.

Power was pulsing through his veins and it was an inhuman power. An ugly, evil power that terrified him even as it intoxicated him.

My story began when I killed my brother, and that's where your story will inevitably end.

Cain's words thundered in his head.

Dean had already tried to kill his brother. He could still smell the plaster dust. Still feel the reverberations as the hammer struck the wall. Still remember how, in that nightmarish moment, he'd wanted to see Sam's blood paint the wall.

"He liked to see things bleed." Abigail's words came to mind.

Hot acid burned the back of his throat and he lurched for the bathroom.

Fear and pain and a sickness so profound it seemed he would never recover from it tore through him. If only he could purge this poison from his system; the poison of the Mark.

If only he could take it all back.

I can't kill him.

I can't kill him.

He leaned over the toilet, more sick at heart even than he was sick to his stomach.

You already tried to kill him, his traitorous mind stressed.

I was a demon. Yeah, but what about now? Why do you lay awake at night, longing to hurt something? To destroy something? To watch something bleed?

"He liked to see things bleed."

You like to see things bleed.

Time spun and twisted around him as he leaned over the toilet and fought to regain control.

I can't kill him, I can't kill him, I can't kill him, he repeated over and over again as if he could silence the blood lust running through his veins. As if he could silence the power of the Mark.

Please, please, I can't kill my brother!

"You won't."

Dean flinched.

"You won't kill me, Dean."

The words were soft and seemed to come from far away, but they drew him back to full awareness. He shifted slightly, pins and needles rushing through his arms where they were crossed over the toilet. His head was pillowed on his arms and his neck protested even the slightest movement. He could smell the sickness in the air and wondered if he'd blacked out or just completely lost track of everything.

A gentle, if clumsy, hand was patting him on the back and he forced his eyes open, catching sight of his brother hovering next to him.

"Y'think you're done?" Sam's voice was slurred and he was wavering where he knelt, but he kept up the awkward back patting anyway.

Dean shrugged, pulling himself together. Head pounding, he reached up to rub his eyes only to find his face was wet; he'd been crying. Crap. Scrubbing at his face, he reacted just in time to catch his brother before he toppled over.

"Dean?"

"Yeah." He pushed Sam until he was sitting back against the wall, then sat down across from him.

Sam looked awful and his eyes were bright with tears but there was no uncertainty when he said, "I'm not afraid of you."

Dean snorted. Bitterly, he said, "Maybe you should be."

"As long as you're 'round, nothing bad's gonna happen t'me." Sam leaned forward and jabbed his finger against Dean's chest. "You said that."

"And look what a load of crap that was." Dean hated how his voice broke. "Look at everything you've gone through."

"Everything we've gone through." Sam shook his head. He frowned in concentration, obviously fighting the alcohol to keep his thoughts in line and his words steady. "We've gone through a lot of crap. Tha's not your fault. Tha's life. I don't care about any of that. Even if bad stuff happens...I can deal with it. 's long as you're 'round."

Dean scrubbed his sleeve against his eyes when more tears threatened to fall. He cleared his throat and asked, "How are you sober enough to even talk right now?"

"I'm pretty damn drunk, you jerk." Sam's smile was shaky. "Gonna hate you in th' mornin'."

"Noted."

"You're not gonna kill me."

"Sam-"

"Ok?" Sam nodded, reaching out and smacking Dean against the chest. "End of story. You're too afraid to."

Dean was plenty afraid, but he didn't know what his brother meant.

Sam smiled again and said, "You're you afraid I'll haunt your ass."

"You're you?" Dean laughed despite everything.

"Too. You're too," Sam mumbled, fighting to keep his eyes open. "And don't think I won't. Too. Haunt you. I will. I swear I will-"

"Yeah, ok whatever you say, Sammy." Dean dragged him off the floor. "How bout you just pass out for a few hours and then you can wake up grumpy and I'll buy you another pumpkin spice latte?"

Sam tripped over his own feet and Dean did most of the work, but they made it to the candy-wrapper covered bed without either of them hitting the floor. Collapsing hard, Sam didn't fight when Dean tucked a pillow next to his arm to keep it supported. Didn't fight when he pulled the covers up over him.

But he grabbed Dean's arm when he started to move away.

"Stay."

Dean swallowed hard against the swell of emotion. He sat down, then shifted until he was settled back against the headboard. Reaching for the remote, he turned the tv back on but kept the volume low.

Sam reached out with a fumbling hand and patted his knee. Eyes closed, he muttered, "Glad you're here..."

Opening his mouth to respond to the sugary sweet comment, Dean was interrupted.

"...I might throw up on you."

Dean laughed. "Will you shut up and go to sleep already? The big kids want to watch the scary clown movie."

"Scary clown," Sam repeated, a smile on his face as he faded out again.

Shaking his head, Dean watched his brother sleep as the movie played in the background.

Maybe Archie had killed Abigail.

Maybe Cain had killed his brother.

Maybe the Mark was going to drive him right to the brink, but he wasn't going to go any further.

Dean smiled, filled with a sense of peace. Sam had faith in him and would stand by him no matter what. Maybe he wouldn't be strong enough to resist the power of the Mark on his own, but maybe together they would be.

As long as I'm around, nothing bad's gonna happen to you.

Maybe that promise went both ways.

________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

the end

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading!

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! Hope you enjoyed!


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